Chapter 2

Tom woke before dawn. It may have been the piping of the waders poking around in the mud next to his little yacht or the lapping of the rising tide, but that is unlikely. He looked at his watch in the half-light. Ten to five ... or as he thought of it, 'oh four fifty'.

He crawled out of the oddly-shaped berth in the fo'c'sle of his small, elderly yacht. ('She may be old, but she's sound and she's mine, ' he'd say.) He pulled on a pair of jeans and some deck-shoes, picked up a towel, soap and shampoo and ran along the quay to the shower. Clean, he rummaged through his 'wardrobe' (by courtesy – no-one could seriously call his limited, mostly grubby collection of clothes a 'wardrobe') to find his cleanest presentable (least disreputable) outfit and put it on. Nearly six o' clock, he walked to his elderly, faded but otherwise well looked after Skoda Favorit and drove it from the quay and out of Maldon. He picked up the A12 at Witham and headed north towards Ipswich.

Like many British roads the A12 has been upgraded and straightened over the years, though some would say 'too little, too late' for each improvement. As a result there are a number of 'lay-bys' that are really old bends in the road; pleasant by reason of trees and greater distance from the main road. In one of them an enterprising caterer has converted an old shipping container into a fast-food bar. Tom stopped and bought a substantial sausage sandwich, eschewing fried onions with regret, and a large mug of strong tea.

While eating his breakfast and after, when driving at fifty-five miles an hour towards Felixstowe, we was thinking about Chrissie. Beautiful, talented, clever, well dressed. She'd said... 'we're meant to be together' ... but surely ... They'd lost contact after 'A' levels, when she'd gone to Music College. Nearly eight years. She ... had to be too good for him. She needed a friend today ... he'd be her friend. He just wouldn't expect more. And why was he driving up at this time? He couldn't roll up on the doorstep at ... what, seven-thirty?

Chrissie was confused. After meeting Tom and asking him to support her at the funeral, she'd returned to Felixstowe Ferry in the car borrowed from Jessica. She, too thought deeply about her first love; the care and love he'd shown, the joy they'd shared. But she knew she'd neglected him. She'd not contacted him for nearly eight years, their lives so different, never meeting. She didn't deserve him. The almost two years she'd spent as a prostitute; she was damaged goods. Tom deserved someone clean, someone pure.

On return to the Ferry, she cornered Alison who, at eighteen thought she knew all about love (despite never letting any boy past second base). She explained to Alison how a relationship with Tom was out of the question.

"Codswallop!" declared Alison, momentarily distracted by remembering that was a favourite expression of her father's. "Everyone could see you were meant to be together. You need to talk to him. Don't you love him?"

At which Chrissie turned to Alison with tears in her eyes. "I don't know, Ally. I just don't know. All I know is when I was in his arms, I felt complete for the first time in ... nearly eight years."

"Yer daft 'aporth!" (another of her father's favourite expressions) "of course you're in love with him. That's what real love is all about – being completed."

As a result, Chrissie slept rather badly and awoke early. Just about the same time as Tom, in fact...

She lay in her old room thinking as the sky outside lightened, and eventually got up, dressed and went downstairs to eat some breakfast. There being no signs of life from anyone else, she grabbed a fleece against the morning chill and walked from the house to the ferry pier.

The old pier is built of wood and is stepped to make boarding the ferry easy whatever the tide. (At high water much of it is under water and the end is indicated by a post). Chrissie sat on one of the steps about half-way down and just looked at the water, aware at some level of the sounds of the place; the piping calls of wading birds, the raucous shouts of the gulls. Somewhere in the distance a fox barked.

As she sat, a Little Tern plunged into the water quite close and reappeared with a small wriggling fish in its beak.

'This is home," she thought, "That's why I've been uncomfortable. I didn't think about it at College because I was so busy studying and jumping through hoops. I've only just realised that for four years I've been ... actually ... miserable. Except when playing; I can forget it, channel it, then."

She wasn't aware of the movements of the early human activity in the hamlet; sea fishermen setting off before the current got too strong, sailors awake early, a workman in the boatyard. She wasn't aware of Tom, who'd parked his old Skoda in the gravelled car-park by the café and walked quietly down to the pier, not expecting to see anyone there, let alone Chrissie.

It was only after he'd sat on the step next to her and gently – nervously – laid his arm round her shoulders and spoke.

"Aisling?"As he used her middle name ... his endearment saved for very special occasions ... memories, vivid, living memories, came flooding back. She turned to him, buried her face against his shoulder and wept.

"Hey, hey..." he wrapped his other arm round her and held her as she shook.

"Tom..."

"I'm here. Chrissie, I'm your friend. I will always be here when you need me."

The funeral was at eleven.

The little chapel, St. Nicholas-at-the-Ferry, was packed. Locals who just wanted to say 'goodbye' to a respected neighbour and friend. Family – by blood and adoption, other friends.

Annie Knight spoke. She was in a white 'cassock-alb' with a white stole.

"This is both a sad occasion and a celebration. There is a verse of scripture which says, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' I can't say I knew Dave Yeomans well; I only met him once or twice, but I see the fruit of his life in you here today. I doubt there is anyone here whose life has not been affected for the better by him, so I believe I know him through you. A modest man, yet one for whom no trouble was too much. A nurse, odd-job man, sailor and father ... husband and grandfather. Father not just to Fiona, Richard and Alison, but also to Jenni and Chrissie. It is sad for us, deprived of the company of a loving man, but it is also an occasion for thanksgiving, remembering all Dave has been to each of us. He would not want us to mourn over much but rather to remember with joy his life and his love. Jenni ... I'm sorry you feel you can't sing today as you have on family occasions in the past. Instead, we have Chrissie and ... Alison?"

"I want to try," Alison said, steadily. "Chrissie will help."

Chrissie stood, checking the tune of her guitar.

"To an outsider, our choice of music might seem strange, but we think Dave would approve. Feel free to join in the chorus, please."