mooring till it pointed downriver. An implied direction, to go out to sea again.
He puts on a white shirt and his thick-rimmed glasses, then has a shave. He looks at himself in the mirror again, and pushes his hair back behind the temples - he’s getting quite grey there, not that he minds. But in the shirt he begins to feel too clean, too stiff, his skin has a gleaming look on the cheeks that will undo him all evening, he knows it, he won’t relax. He’s still haunted by crying in front of the trawler men. He can’t trust himself in company. It was easier to be alone on the North Sea, he thinks, with its endless water and air and sandbanks. But was it? Really?
Position: The Falls of Lora . 7:10pm
‘You’re early,’ Marta says, leaning over the rail to take his rope. She too has changed for the evening. She’s in a dark-green crocheted cardigan, with baggy sleeves. It looks like a complicated piece of clothing, and has been held together by a large brooch. Guy thinks both of them making such an effort to look good is in some way embarrassing.
‘This boat has seen some sailing,’ he says.
‘My husband’s other woman,’ she replies. She guides him down the cockpit steps towards the cabin, adding, ‘It’s horribly small.’
It’s an understatement. The saloon is amazingly cramped, part galley, part bunk area, with a fixed Formica table and curved walls that follow the yacht’s shape, but it’s the shelves that are most oppressive. On both sides there are books crammed into any space that will take them, held in place by batons that run across their spines. They narrow the saloon and give the air the subdued sound of a library. He sees the books before he sees Rhona, seated at the table in an emerald-green knitted top. More of her clothes spill out from a large saggy holdall pushed to one side, none of them folded, full of their own unwrapping, and through an open door beyond, he can see a tapering bunk area filled with duvets and rugs and more clothes on the floor.
Guy is very aware that he hardly knows them. It makes him over-keen to put them at their ease, so he sets off the evening telling them about coming here ten years earlier, how the pub still had that bricolage whale back then, and how he and four others had been in a country-folk band doing a gig.
He wonders afterwards why he didn’t mention that one of the band was his wife.
Marta replies politely, ‘Are you still a musician?’ She doesn’t look comfortable in her cardigan. She keeps having to adjust it.
‘Oh no, I teach kids how to play the piano. That’s how I afford the mooring fees. I mean, I don’t get much, but I don’t need much any more, just enough to get by. I’ve got about ten pupils who have lessons after school, but not in the summer holidays. I have a piano on board.’
‘Right,’ Rhona pitches in. ‘We’ve been guessing what you do.’
‘Really?’
‘Mum thought you were on the run.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘And not true, either,’ says Marta.
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Guy’s calming down rapidly.
‘We hate this boat,’ Rhona says, dramatically. She has a curious mouth, slightly unconventional in the way the top lip rises. Her teeth are strong and prominent. It’s attractive.
Marta brings a large bowl of pasta to the table. ‘We thought we could manage and bring these dusty books back without them getting wet - though really we haven’t been doing much sailing - we’ve used the motor. Ro’s here to watch me fail.’
‘You’re not failing,’ Rhona says.
‘Very kind. But I am.’
‘We used the sail the other day.’
‘With mixed results. Problem is, the motor makes it boring, and it gives us too much time. We’re not into too much time at the moment, are we, love?’
Marta gives her daughter a slightly testing look. Rhona shrugs and gives a warm smile back.
‘Where are the books going?’
‘Eventually, in the attic. In Cambridge. We’ve motored all the way round from the
He puts on a white shirt and his thick-rimmed glasses, then has a shave. He looks at himself in the mirror again, and pushes his hair back behind the temples - he’s getting quite grey there, not that he minds. But in the shirt he begins to feel too clean, too stiff, his skin has a gleaming look on the cheeks that will undo him all evening, he knows it, he won’t relax. He’s still haunted by crying in front of the trawler men. He can’t trust himself in company. It was easier to be alone on the North Sea, he thinks, with its endless water and air and sandbanks. But was it? Really?
Position: The Falls of Lora . 7:10pm
‘You’re early,’ Marta says, leaning over the rail to take his rope. She too has changed for the evening. She’s in a dark-green crocheted cardigan, with baggy sleeves. It looks like a complicated piece of clothing, and has been held together by a large brooch. Guy thinks both of them making such an effort to look good is in some way embarrassing.
‘This boat has seen some sailing,’ he says.
‘My husband’s other woman,’ she replies. She guides him down the cockpit steps towards the cabin, adding, ‘It’s horribly small.’
It’s an understatement. The saloon is amazingly cramped, part galley, part bunk area, with a fixed Formica table and curved walls that follow the yacht’s shape, but it’s the shelves that are most oppressive. On both sides there are books crammed into any space that will take them, held in place by batons that run across their spines. They narrow the saloon and give the air the subdued sound of a library. He sees the books before he sees Rhona, seated at the table in an emerald-green knitted top. More of her clothes spill out from a large saggy holdall pushed to one side, none of them folded, full of their own unwrapping, and through an open door beyond, he can see a tapering bunk area filled with duvets and rugs and more clothes on the floor.
Guy is very aware that he hardly knows them. It makes him over-keen to put them at their ease, so he sets off the evening telling them about coming here ten years earlier, how the pub still had that bricolage whale back then, and how he and four others had been in a country-folk band doing a gig.
He wonders afterwards why he didn’t mention that one of the band was his wife.
Marta replies politely, ‘Are you still a musician?’ She doesn’t look comfortable in her cardigan. She keeps having to adjust it.
‘Oh no, I teach kids how to play the piano. That’s how I afford the mooring fees. I mean, I don’t get much, but I don’t need much any more, just enough to get by. I’ve got about ten pupils who have lessons after school, but not in the summer holidays. I have a piano on board.’
‘Right,’ Rhona pitches in. ‘We’ve been guessing what you do.’
‘Really?’
‘Mum thought you were on the run.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘And not true, either,’ says Marta.
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Guy’s calming down rapidly.
‘We hate this boat,’ Rhona says, dramatically. She has a curious mouth, slightly unconventional in the way the top lip rises. Her teeth are strong and prominent. It’s attractive.
Marta brings a large bowl of pasta to the table. ‘We thought we could manage and bring these dusty books back without them getting wet - though really we haven’t been doing much sailing - we’ve used the motor. Ro’s here to watch me fail.’
‘You’re not failing,’ Rhona says.
‘Very kind. But I am.’
‘We used the sail the other day.’
‘With mixed results. Problem is, the motor makes it boring, and it gives us too much time. We’re not into too much time at the moment, are we, love?’
Marta gives her daughter a slightly testing look. Rhona shrugs and gives a warm smile back.
‘Where are the books going?’
‘Eventually, in the attic. In Cambridge. We’ve motored all the way round from the
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