Solent, and we’re going to leave it here, aren’t we?’ Rhona nods. ‘You live by yourself?’ Marta asks.
‘Yeah. All year round, and I spend most of it thinking I’m not up to it.’ He tells them about his estuary - the Blackwater - and his own mooring slotted between the wrecks and the soon-to-be wrecks of the Tide Mill anchorage. He tells them about the gulls landing on the wooden roof above his cabin, falling like sacks of bones in winter when the sea’s cold and the birds are full of anger and empty inside. How they wake him up. And the flocks of starlings that blow up into the cold air above the estuary, turning in strange patterns in the dusk before they settle in the trees. The patches of phosphorescence that drift by in the flow during the middle of the night, sparkling like glitter lost in the water, and the cormorants that fish from his bow, wings outstretched in the morning sun to dry their feathers. It all sounds more enjoyable than he’d intended.
‘That’s great,’ Rhona says, enthusiastically. She’s not all cool young woman, after all.
‘Ro’s a fan of houseboats. Viking blood.’
‘Right - are you Norwegian?’
Marta seems to find that hilarious. She laughs loudly and puts her hand to her mouth, concealing that quirky tooth of hers.
‘Icelandic,’ she says.
‘It’s not that funny, Mum.’
‘To a girl from Reykjavik, it’s always funny. Sorry,’ she says, ‘it’s just I don’t think I have an accent. I came to England at eighteen to study archaeology - and instead I fell in love and never went back.’
‘How long’ve you lived on the boat?’ Rhona asks, half interrupting her mother.
‘Five years. I suppose it’s not all bad,’ Guy says, forcing a brightness, ‘the way the tide lifts your whole life up just to put it back down in the mud twice a day, that’s wonderful, when you’re asleep and you start to float - I really like that - it’s like you drift away in every sense, from yourself.’ Guy realizes he might be talking too much; living alone has made him an unpredictable guest. He needs to rein it in. ‘And the pub on the quay’s good - they do crispy whitebait and sweet scallops, and dark nutty ale.’
‘See - you like it,’ Rhona says, downing a glass of wine. Rhona’s top has small metallic threads woven into it. Guy notices Marta looking concerned.
‘But the spring tides are scary - they stretch the ropes. And I’ve had enough of chemical toilets.’ He gets the desired smile from the others, both of them with a slight crinkle at the edges of their mouths - he hasn’t noticed that similarity before. He’s buoyed by them. The simple pleasure of making a woman smile, there’s nothing like it.
‘What made you live on a boat?’ Rhona asks.
Guy hesitates - he doesn’t want to ruin the evening like he did on the trawler. But it’s hard. He can feel the space where Freya should be, even here, where there is no space. He decides to be vague, ‘Various reasons.’ He can tell Marta senses a subject he’s hiding, but she lets it pass.
‘Yesterday,’ he jokes, ‘I woke up and the barge was stuck on a sandbank.’
‘Told you!’ Ro says, looking at her mother as if it’s confirmed one of their dreads. ‘Where?’
‘About ten miles offshore. But the odd thing was how relaxing it was. The sand was only this much higher than the tide, and it’s really very strange, to be walking around in the middle of the North Sea like that.’ He goes into the story at this point, making it an idiotic adventure, describing how the Flood dragged him and the inflatable off the bank at the end, aware too that he’s not telling them so many other things, such as his swim into nowhere, how he looked up at the sky and felt the presence of his daughter by his side, or the impenetrable steel cliffs of the container ship passing inches away from him last night. It almost feels like they’re spending the evening with a dead man, that they’ve invited a ghost.
‘Yeah. All year round, and I spend most of it thinking I’m not up to it.’ He tells them about his estuary - the Blackwater - and his own mooring slotted between the wrecks and the soon-to-be wrecks of the Tide Mill anchorage. He tells them about the gulls landing on the wooden roof above his cabin, falling like sacks of bones in winter when the sea’s cold and the birds are full of anger and empty inside. How they wake him up. And the flocks of starlings that blow up into the cold air above the estuary, turning in strange patterns in the dusk before they settle in the trees. The patches of phosphorescence that drift by in the flow during the middle of the night, sparkling like glitter lost in the water, and the cormorants that fish from his bow, wings outstretched in the morning sun to dry their feathers. It all sounds more enjoyable than he’d intended.
‘That’s great,’ Rhona says, enthusiastically. She’s not all cool young woman, after all.
‘Ro’s a fan of houseboats. Viking blood.’
‘Right - are you Norwegian?’
Marta seems to find that hilarious. She laughs loudly and puts her hand to her mouth, concealing that quirky tooth of hers.
‘Icelandic,’ she says.
‘It’s not that funny, Mum.’
‘To a girl from Reykjavik, it’s always funny. Sorry,’ she says, ‘it’s just I don’t think I have an accent. I came to England at eighteen to study archaeology - and instead I fell in love and never went back.’
‘How long’ve you lived on the boat?’ Rhona asks, half interrupting her mother.
‘Five years. I suppose it’s not all bad,’ Guy says, forcing a brightness, ‘the way the tide lifts your whole life up just to put it back down in the mud twice a day, that’s wonderful, when you’re asleep and you start to float - I really like that - it’s like you drift away in every sense, from yourself.’ Guy realizes he might be talking too much; living alone has made him an unpredictable guest. He needs to rein it in. ‘And the pub on the quay’s good - they do crispy whitebait and sweet scallops, and dark nutty ale.’
‘See - you like it,’ Rhona says, downing a glass of wine. Rhona’s top has small metallic threads woven into it. Guy notices Marta looking concerned.
‘But the spring tides are scary - they stretch the ropes. And I’ve had enough of chemical toilets.’ He gets the desired smile from the others, both of them with a slight crinkle at the edges of their mouths - he hasn’t noticed that similarity before. He’s buoyed by them. The simple pleasure of making a woman smile, there’s nothing like it.
‘What made you live on a boat?’ Rhona asks.
Guy hesitates - he doesn’t want to ruin the evening like he did on the trawler. But it’s hard. He can feel the space where Freya should be, even here, where there is no space. He decides to be vague, ‘Various reasons.’ He can tell Marta senses a subject he’s hiding, but she lets it pass.
‘Yesterday,’ he jokes, ‘I woke up and the barge was stuck on a sandbank.’
‘Told you!’ Ro says, looking at her mother as if it’s confirmed one of their dreads. ‘Where?’
‘About ten miles offshore. But the odd thing was how relaxing it was. The sand was only this much higher than the tide, and it’s really very strange, to be walking around in the middle of the North Sea like that.’ He goes into the story at this point, making it an idiotic adventure, describing how the Flood dragged him and the inflatable off the bank at the end, aware too that he’s not telling them so many other things, such as his swim into nowhere, how he looked up at the sky and felt the presence of his daughter by his side, or the impenetrable steel cliffs of the container ship passing inches away from him last night. It almost feels like they’re spending the evening with a dead man, that they’ve invited a ghost.
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