Chapter 8

It just isn't possible to comprehend what Gerry Westwood was experiencing; we can only try to imagine. A young man – in his thirties, anyway – in the prime of his life, who had all his life been fit and active, able to look after himself ... and others that he was responsible for. An officer in one of the pre-eminent special ops units in the world, so tough, highly trained, self-reliant but a team player ... reduced to almost total dependence on nurses who for the most part were young women. The pain in the leg that was no longer there. His impending discharge from the service he loved, that had been his life since leaving school, that was really his only family with the death of his grandfather. He'd have a pension ... of sorts, anyway ... and he had savings and investments as a result of carefully watching his spending throughout his career; the career which had been his life. No ... finance wouldn't be a big problem. There was Grandad's house, so he'd have somewhere to live, but ... what about that Delia Cooper. He couldn't just ask her to leave, but, share the house with an attractive, young, married, woman? And what would he do with his life? Who would employ a one-legged former soldier? One whose principle skills lay in the area of killing other people quietly and efficiently? He was in no mental condition to remember that his main function was to protect and defend; that killing was a last resort; that he had people skills and better than average technical knowledge.

Captain Gerry Westwood was in pain physically, emotionally and mentally. In short he was depressed. His doctors almost certainly suspected that, but like many if not most men of his profession, he was adept at covering up his feelings. As his physical condition improved and he was able to do more for himself, as his physiotherapy began and continued, he drove himself to achieve or exceed all that was asked of him.

In Maldon, as September became October and October became November, the season end activities began. With the first hints of chill in the wind and the falling leaves, boats began to be taken ashore for the winter and to have any necessary work carried out. Along the quay, crews were lowering the 'gear' on the barges; topmasts lowered and the mainmasts tilted in their 'tabernacles' to lay along the decks. Sails removed for repair or storage; in some cases to be 'dressed' with the characteristic red-brown concoction. Increasingly, Delia chose to spend an hour or so after Matins walking along the quay and prom, watching all the activity. It gave her something to talk about to her cleaning clientèle and it got her some fresh air.

It was late in October that she noticed the young man working on the deck of Reminder, one of the two barges that still had their gear up. On impulse she picked her way across the two barges against the quay. There was no gangway; she had to cross a gap from the quay to 'Hydrogen', then from 'Hydrogen' to 'Wivenhoe' and from Wivenhoe to Reminder. He looked up as she arrived on board.

"Good morning, Tom," she smiled, "still working I see."

"Oh, a sailorman's work is never done," he grinned, but the grin was clearly not deep.

Delia picked up on that immediately. "Are you all right, Tom? You seem down."

"Oh ... erm..." he stood, indecisive for once. "Cup of tea?" And after a short pause, "Coffee?"

Delia instantly realised that this was important. "Sure; thanks. Whichever you're making."

In the saloon, sitting with mugs of very strong tea, Delia prompted him. "Problem?"

"Not ... exactly." He frowned.

"Girlfriend?"

He looked at her. "She's at Music College in London. We knew we'd have to go our separate ways at the end of the summer." He looked away, "I'm missing her..."

"Don't you write?"

"No. We ... thought it best to ... well, I'm really not good enough for her, and she's going to be really busy, you see. We're going to move in different worlds, Chrissie and I, so... " his voice trailed off uncertainly. "Ever since I first saw one of these ships, I wanted nothing more than to sail, to spend my life with them. Chrissie ... she's a musician. A really gifted one. She sailed with us, you know, each summer, playing and singing for the punters, but ... she's going to be famous, I think. Travel all over the world, you know. She's really beautiful, as well..."

"How long were you together?"

"Nearly three years."

"Don't you think you must be special to her for her to stay with you that long?"

He shrugged. "She ... sort of needed me at first," he said. "I suppose she stayed with me out of gratitude."

Delia sensed his reluctance to talk about her background and swallowed the temptation to press him further. "Tom, don't put yourself down. You're obviously gifted too, in a different way. There's nothing wrong with manual labour, or getting dirty to do something necessary. It's a pity if you lose touch, but ... love will find a way, you know." She didn't give her opinion of a girl who couldn't be bothered to scribble a note to a boy she'd been with for three years, however busy and pressured she might be.

They finished their tea while Tom explained what was going on with the barges, how Reminder had one more cruise before the winter and how he'd be living aboard doing all sorts of maintenance work, little things, mainly, but it would mean somewhere for him to live, to be a part of the traditional sailing craft world. When they parted, Delia was a little late for her morning appointment, but Tom seemed brighter and she deemed it worthwhile.

As it happened, her appointment that morning was with Edith Spurgeon. She apologised, but Edith was more than usually bitter and sour. An attempt at an explanation, that she'd run into an old friend who'd seemed upset seemed, if anything, to make matters worse, so she didn't go into any more detail and worked over to ensure what was needed was done. She had to wonder what Edith's problem was as she was so unlike the other older ladies she had contact with. Not all of them were consistently cheerful, but none of them were so consistently dour as Edith. A germ of an idea sprouted in the back of her mind; she noted it and placed it (so to speak) somewhere it would have a chance to grow. As a result, her ladies each received a baked treat when she visited them – a fairy cake, perhaps, a few jam tarts or mince pies, shortbread biscuits maybe. Edith Spurgeon responded as might be expected, negatively.

"I don't need your pity, Mrs. Cooper."

"It's not pity, Miss Spurgeon; I just thought it would be nice to give each of my ladies a little treat when I visit. It's not as though I'm singling you out."

The response to that was merely a grunt.

As November became December and the church colours changed again from green to purple, Delia received a text from her 'landlord', warning her he was returning to Maldon. She turned up the radiator in his room and changed the sheets on his bed.

She hardly recognised him.

She'd never before seen him in anything except uniform. His face had new lines and the air of assurance was gone ... he was walking awkwardly.

Her heart surged in her chest, a curious mixture of joy at seeing him again and concern at his obvious unease. It did not occur to her how much she had changed in little more than a year ... her desire to help Bert Westwood, who she barely knew, picking up on Tom Carmichael's unhappiness, wanting to do something about Edith Spurgeon's bitterness ... instantly detecting that all was not well with Gerry Westwood. None of that would have occurred to her previously.