Chapter 15

We didn't get a flat calm in the Irish Sea, what we got was almost worse; light, cyclonic winds, fickle in direction and strength. So the last thirty miles or so, we stowed the sails and carried on under power. It was, however, late afternoon before we had topped off with diesel and drinking water, were berthed in one of the fifteen metre berths and had checked in with the marina office.

We made a bee-line for the showers before sorting out our supper, over which we discussed our stay in Dun Laoghaire. Dun Laoghaire, the pronunciation usually anglicised as 'Dunleary', is ... I was going to say typically Irish, but thinking about it, that's meaningless. I mean that it is a pleasant town, with fascinating contrasts between history and its character as a modern European town. Welcoming, and offering all the facilities we required, we felt it worthwhile to spend a day there, and to stay long enough to make the eight mile journey by train into Dublin the following day; we'd thus be three nights in the marina. Strange are the ways of Providence, as you will see.

After an early supper, we were both urgent to make up for the previous week of being deprived of our bed-partner. Freshly showered, warm in the June weather, we were not desperate to stay beneath the covers. In fact, we rapidly heated up ... physically, that is, as well as sensually, devouring each other with hands and lips and, occasionally, teeth, revelling in the skin-to-skin contacts and coming together in a... tumultuous ... joining. I was amazed and perplexed; never having experienced anything like it in previous relationships. It seemed that every contact, especially every act of intercourse, was strengthening this bond between us. It wasn't that we were particularly adventurous. I'd had girlfriends who had pushed the boundaries of the sexual act, sometimes beyond my comfort zone, who had wanted to be tied, or whipped, suspended from the deck-beams in rope cradles, or wanted anal sex. There was one who had a copy of the Kama Sutra and insisted on attempting every position in it in turn; it took me weeks to sort out the various strains and pains when she left. But Grace and I didn't want any of that. We wanted to be joined together, in positions where we could see our partner's face. We enjoyed oral sex ... I loved the taste and the texture of her and I enjoyed what she did with her mouth, but when it came to the point, we both wanted me in her. Where I'd been frightened of committing to her, now I was terrified of separation.

That Monday, we had a wonderful, leisurely day exploring Dun Laoghaire, rarely losing physical touch. We found an excellent café at lunchtime, did some shopping for provisions, ate ice-cream, and found a book-shop. We spotted it at the same moment and turned toward it simultaneously, were about to step toward it, but looked at each other. Seeing the mingled desire, fascination and lust that was our mutual attitude to books, we laughed happily and set off, rapidly, to explore it. Almost inevitably, we got into conversation with the owner, a tall, spare, stooped man with thin, sandy hair. Having covered all the ills of the world, especially those of Ireland, we asked him for a recommendation for supper...

"Ah, now ... would you be objecting to a little nepotism?" he asked.

We assured him that we merely wanted some advice and if a relative of his was a good cook, that was fine.

"Ah, to be sure, then. Moira Hughes it is, my cousin. Easy to find..." he reeled off instructions that lost me in seconds. Eventually, we persuaded him to sketch a map, which enabled us to find the little restaurant, where I was fed an Irish Stew beyond belief. If the angels in Heaven were to be served Irish Stew, it would be cooked by Moira Hughes. Grace had cheese-and-ale soup and red-potato colcannon – I think I have it correct. I'm pretty sure I got the better end of the deal, but then, I'm not vegetarian. She seemed to like it.

Back at Serendipity, we weren't too tired to make love, but neither were we awake very long after.

Ireland is a series of paradoxes – every modern feature; the train we rode was as up-to-date, clean and comfortable as any I'd encountered – right alongside ancient history and a living spirituality. The train wasn't exactly crowded, but there weren't two seats empty together. I insisted she take one of the available aisle seats and stood next to her, resting my free hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me and smiled, the smile that still never fails to make my heart turn somersaults. From the station (we bought a map) we wandered past Trinity College, found a shopping centre (St. Stephen's Green) and bought coffee for me and redbush tea for Grace and buns to eat; we carried them to St. Stephen's Green. We sat at the first empty bench we came to and I sipped my coffee, but Grace put her snack down.

"Be right back," she said, standing and heading purposefully across the open space.

I watched, bemused, as she headed straight for a young woman who sat slumped on another of the benches. I wasn't exactly worried as long as she was in sight, but I did wonder what she was doing.

She perched on the edge of the bench, half turned towards the girl; her head bent towards her, her hand rested on the girl's shoulder. What was happening? They moved and Grace's arms were round her; they were rocking together. I watched, and was half-way down my coffee when Grace waved to me.

I somehow gathered up the buns and two cups, and crossed the green to them. Grace looked up and I handed her cup to her. She smiled and dipped her head, handing the cup to the girl, who sniffed loudly.

"Are you sure?" she asked very quietly.

"Of course," Grace answered firmly, holding out her hand to me for her Irish tea-cake. I handed it to her and she offered it to the girl, who looked up; fear, was it? In her blotchy, tear-stained face. "Take it," Grace urged. "Ted will go and get me another ... won't you, Ted?"

I suppose my response must have been a little slow, because Grace stood, hands on my shoulders and kissed me. "Please, Ted, go and get me another cake and drink? Perhaps a sandwich for Evania, here? I'll explain when you come back. It'll be alright. Please?"

I had no idea what was going on, except I assumed Grace's 'care' switch had been flipped somehow. I handed the remains of my coffee to Grace, shrugged and headed back to the shopping centre. After some thought, I bought several sandwiches, enough for all of us and a selection of cakes. Also hot drinks – they gave me a cardboard carrier – and some bottles of fruit juice.

When Grace saw the bag I was carrying her face lit up and, on arrival, she said, "I knew I could rely on you. What've you got?"

"Early lunch," I said. "Sandwiches; chicken salad, cheese-and-tomato, BLT, cheese-and-pickle, corned-beef salad. More coffee, two cups of redbush ... didn't know what to get. Selection of cakes to follow. Fruit juice."

"Excellent. I might have known you'd think ahead."

"You going to tell me what's going on?"

"Eva needs some help. Will that do for now?"

I sensed there wasn't much point in pushing right then, and just nodded. The story come out slowly over the course of the afternoon; I think just telling someone helped the girl. One of the ... anomalies of Irish life – remember what I said about the paradox of old and new alongside each other? For a modern country, there are deeply embedded prejudices against contraception and abortion (it's a Catholic country) not to mention sex (and babies) outside marriage. This is where I bite my tongue to resist a tirade against organised religion and the triumph of ideology over love. The short of the story was that she was pregnant; the man, a travelling salesman, what else? had promised to marry her, even gave her a ring (we later found out it was next to worthless). She'd slept with him on a fairly regular basis when he was in town, but as soon as she fell pregnant, never appeared again. Now ... I can understand parents being distressed, disappointed ... even angry. But to turn the girl out on the streets with just the clothes on her back?

When Grace approached her, she was resigning herself to approach one of the places that exist for unmarried mothers, but she'd heard of the attitudes of such places and thought they might be worse than ... what? Life on the streets? Suicide? She considered suicide, she told us, but just couldn't bring herself to end the life growing inside her. Then Grace sat down beside her.

"I want to take her with us," she said, bluntly.

"But..." objections streamed through my head. Not least, what her presence would do to our privacy. In the end, though, I turned to the girl. "Now," I said, "we're sailing. We're going to a little town on the other side of England and it'll take weeks to do it. You'll probably be sick and the ... facilities on board ... are fairly primitive. Do you want to come?"

"I haven't any money," she said.

I looked at Grace, who smiled and nodded. "Not a problem," I said.

"I don't know much about sailing."

"Are you willing to learn?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Then there's no problem."

"I'll be in the way ... I mean, your privacy..."

"Not a problem," Grace put in, looking at me, hard.

"Not a problem," I agreed. Not that I actually did. "What might be a problem in the long term ... I don't suppose you've got a passport?"

"Sorry, no."

"Birth certificate?"

"Sorry, no."

"We can deal with that," Grace said firmly.

And we did. The birth certificate we got from the Registrar, at a price. Also an application form for a passport and photos from a booth. Then we were faced with the problem of an appropriate witness for the application.

"I've an idea," Grace said, "We'll have to see tomorrow. Right now, Evvie and I need to shop. Go find a bookshop, Ted, and meet us at the station at six."

I am not a fool, and I don't like trailing around shops (I assumed, correctly, it would be clothes and feminine essentials) so I did as I was told. In fact, I found a charity shop, where I unearthed Mary Stewart's Arthurian trilogy; The Crystal Cave, The Hollow Hills and The Last Enchantment. I carried my booty back to the station, where I bought a passable cup of coffee and settled down to read.