Rosie of the River

by Catherine Cookson

  After a long silence above and below deck, she began to feel guilty, and made her way slowly up into the cockpit again.

  Fred was sitting there looking utterly dejected, staring over the wheel into the long, rain-swept windscreen.

  She stood by his side and, putting her hand on his shoulder, she said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Fred. I was being bitchy. I didn’t mean it…well, not to hurt you.’

  When he did not look at her, she turned his face towards her, adding now, ‘Please!’

  He still did not speak; but what he did touched her more than words: he laid his head on her shoulder. Then, his voice breaking, he muttered, ‘It’s me. I’m a big-head. I think I know everything; and I can’t bear the truth that I don’t.’

  They finished up with their arms around each other, with Bill appraising them from the side with a puzzled expression on his face.

  By ten o’clock they were out from their berth and in the middle of the river again.

  Later, when raising her eyes lazily from the frothing water to roam the reed-waving banks and draw on more practical tags to fit her mood, Sally realised with surprise that the landscape had changed: there were no banks, at least none near enough to be protecting; the river had widened and looked bleak and forbidding; posts, black and dripping green slime, reared up out of the rain-spangled water, which no longer appeared like a river: its width spoke of the sea. She went and stood by her husband, and he, taking his eyes from the windscreen, smiled at her. However, she did not return the smile for there, ahead, for ever ahead it seemed, were posts. On and on they went. In between and around them flowed the black water, with, spreading away from them on either side, mud, the expanses of mud she had seen on the map.

  This was Breydon Water.

  ‘It looks frightful,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she was assured.

  ‘How deep will it be?’

  ‘Oh…’ and he considered. ‘Oh…now here, it’ll be about four feet six.’

  To allay her fears, she realised he was making it just deep enough that, should she have to stand in it, her head would be clear.

  Sally wanted to believe the lie, but the wide water derided it.

  ‘Why are the posts red on one side and black on the other?’

  ‘Well, I’m not quite sure. I’ll have to look it up.’

  ‘Why are they numbered? Look! That one says forty-seven.’ She turned and looked back. ‘The last one said forty-eight.’ Her voice sank. ‘Do they go right back to one?’

  ‘Yes; but it doesn’t cover all that much distance—three miles or so.’

  ‘Three miles or so of this? Water, mud, and stakes?’

  ‘It’s stopped raining,’ he said; ‘a wind’s rising.’

  Suddenly she pointed ahead, saying, ‘Look! There’s a boat on a sandbank. I bet it’s those three young men.’

  A loud voice came on the wind now, yelling, ‘I warned you!’ This was from a man approaching the sandbank from their right in a rowing boat.

  As they approached, they saw it was indeed the young men. The biggest of the three was standing at the top of the sandbank laughing his head off. He was obviously drunk. The other two were lower down, their backs against their beached craft; and it was the voice of the quietest one, as Sally thought of him, that now came to them, saying, ‘How much longer?’ and the answer from the rowing boat was ‘Just about two hours.’

  She saw Fred glance quickly towards the map and the guidebook and knew that he was thinking of when he had questioned disdainfully why he should have been advised that the best time for crossing would have been between one and two. And here they were, more than two hours ahead. Yet, as they passed the beached boat, all the man in the rowing boat did was glance at them, and with a slight shake of his head he turned to the business in hand to answer some question from the quiet man.

  Fred said nothing until they were some distance ahead, when Sally remarked, ‘The sun’s trying to get out,’ to which he replied, ‘Yes; and if it stays out I’ll take the awning down.’

  ‘How will you manage it on your own?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only held to the window frame by three large press-studs.’

  Sally looked upwards. The awning was now flapping in the wind, which seemed suddenly to have become quite strong.

  ‘If you like, go down and make some coffee.’

  ‘Oh, no; I’d rather stay here.’

  He turned and smiled at her, knowing that she had her own reasons for staying where she was.

  Looking ahead, there seemed to be a sight of land. She did not consider the mud on either side as land, not even the apparently firmer banks beyond; yet the faint white blur on the horizon made the distance to it seem greater than when it had been out of sight.

  ‘Look! The sun means to stay,’ said Fred quickly. ‘You take her; I’ll get the awning down. Just hold her steady.’

  As Sally took the wheel and watched him climb onto the back of the seat, she said, ‘Be careful now.’

  He did not answer but went about trying to get the first press-stud out of its socket. It seemed to be taking much effort; but then, once it was free, the end of the awning flapped its release wildly.

  Fred was now tugging at the middle stud, which, fortunately, came away much more easily; but now the wildly flapping canvas awning was obscuring him from her view. She could hear, though, that he was having further difficulty with the third stud.

  Then it all happened suddenly. Fred seemed to have shot into the air and had disappeared.

  She screamed, and jumped from the wheel to gaze at where the awning, acting like a roller blind, had returned neatly to its bed in the lip overhanging the cabin top, which she could now see in its entirety.

  There was no sign of Fred. Oh, God! Had he been shot over the top and into that filthy mud behind, in which case he was probably dead at this minute?

  Sally jumped back to the wheel and shut off the engine. As she felt the craft begin to move out of control, a weak voice, coming out of the air, yelled, ‘Get back to the wheel and start her. And stay there!’

  She looked down to Bill, to discover that he was lying in the far corner of the cockpit, huddled against her husband’s crumpled body.

  As she made to jump up again, a low but firm voice said, ‘Stay where you are. Keep her straight.’

  Trembling from head to foot, she looked to where he was now unwinding his legs from beneath him, then feeling them to see whether or not they were broken.

  She was awed when he did not attempt to stand up, but came towards her on his hands and knees. Then, slowly pulling himself up onto one of the cockpit seats, he gasped for a moment or two before putting his hand on the wheel and saying, ‘Get me a strong coffee, and bring a pillow.’

  Sally did not question his command, only saw him bend forward and bring his other hand on to the wheel. She dashed below.

  Never in her life had she moved so quickly. It took her about three minutes to make hot strong coffee and return with it and the pillow to the deck.

  In amazement, she watched him swallow the coffee in two long gulps; afterwards he directed her to put the pillow at his back.

  Then he said, ‘Bring the brandy flask.’

  Again he amazed her by emptying the cap of brandy at one gulp; then refilling it and sending that down after the first lot.

  He did not attempt to get on the seat in front of the wheel, but kneeling sideways on the pillow, he said, ‘Take her and keep her steady.’

  With shaking hands, Sally did what she had been told to do.

  When he groaned once or twice, she did not turn towards him to ask how he felt: he had been hurt somewhere, and badly, else he would not have been acting like this.

  It was some time before he next spoke.

  ‘When we are nearing Yarmouth,’ he said, ‘turn left—when I tell you, mind. Then make for the yacht bay.’

  The next half-hour was like a terrifying dream. But then there she was, waking up to the fact that
there were two sailing boats leaving their mooring and that she had slowed down to a crawl, waiting for them to clear it before slipping slowly into their place at the quay.

  Automatically now, as if driven by some inward knowledge, she turned off the engine, jumped out and fastened both ends of Dogfish Three to the rings on the quayside.

  This done, she let out a low breath, then saw Fred pull himself slowly up from his seat and, almost doubled up, make his way down to the cabin. She noticed that Bill had followed him instead of standing waiting to be pulled onto the land that was now so close.

  When she reached the cabin, Fred was trying to lift his legs up onto the seat where he could lie back.

  In a minute she had settled him, then said, ‘What is it, darling? Where are you hurt?’

  He muttered, ‘Nowhere, really; just shaken. And my head aches.’

  He put his hand towards the back of his head; and when she felt his scalp, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, good gracious! Oh, darling. You say you’re not hurt…’

  The lump under her hand was bigger than…the only description that came was a large duck egg.

  ‘You must see a doctor.’

  ‘No! No.’ His tone was emphatic. ‘It’s only a bump, and my back feels a little sore.’

  Sally straightened up. He should see a doctor; but she’d leave it for this afternoon; perhaps after a sleep he might feel better.

  She went into the galley and opened the door into the stern well; and there, standing in his stern well, was, to her further amazement and not a little annoyance, the youth of Dogfish Two. He was staring at her with the same look his father had earlier bestowed.

  But what did it matter? She turned about and went back into the galley and started to prepare the lunch, which she doubted Fred would eat.

  As she had surmised, he could not eat anything; but he drank three cups of tea, before asking for two aspirins.

  At this request she hesitated before saying, ‘I don’t think you should have aspirins now; you’ve had quite a lot of brandy.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ he said dully. ‘It’s a painkiller, and I want that now.’

  ‘It’s a doctor you want.’

  ‘No! No; I tell you, no.’

  The rest of that day, and the day that followed, was a bad memory, except for one incident that would perhaps at another time have been funny and given them a good laugh.

  Sally had said, ‘I must take Bill out. The poor fellow is bursting again, and he’s been so good about waiting—he knows you aren’t well. I’ll not be long…You’ll not try to move, will you?’

  He managed a weak smile as he said, ‘Unfortunately, there’s no fear of that…’

  There were a number of people busy cleaning their boats, and these she passed without incident; but there, before her, strolling leisurely along, were the occupants of Dogfish One. Between the man and woman trotted their bulging-eyed, plain-faced little dog. Her master held her lead as she held Bill’s. Then, with lightning speed, the little animal ran behind her mistress, darted through her legs, over her foot and within sniffing distance of Bill. He, amazingly, seemed not a bit surprised, but received her kiss, then returned it, with interest: a great sloppy lick over her entire face.

  Talk about love at first sight, or the love-meeting after years of separation! The last time these two had faced each other had been amidst a series of growls, barks and snarls through windscreens.

  It would appear that the owners of the lovers had been struck quite dumb for some seconds.

  Then the lady whipped up her beloved pet, away from this horrible brute, and Sally hauled Bill further onto the path. She could only mutter, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Yet, as she pulled him along to an open place of land she was asking herself, Why was I sorry? He hadn’t made the first move. Oh, if Fred had only been well! How he would have laughed at this…

  When, later in the day, she again took Bill out, it was at the end of a very short lead. And on the following day, too. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon—his second outing of the day—when, nearing the clearing, a voice from behind said to her, ‘Excuse me, but I must tell you I was witness to the love scene of yesterday.’ The young man pointed to Bill. ‘It was very funny, Heloïse and Abelard all over again.’

  Sally looked at the third member of the noisy threesome, the quiet one, as she thought of him, and she smiled and said, ‘It was funny, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I saw your boat passing yesterday when we were stuck on the sandbank.’

  ‘That must have been a nasty experience.’

  ‘It’s the first time it’s happened to me,’ he said. ‘I used to cross Breydon often some years ago. But Big Charles’—he paused, then laughed—‘the one who you will have noticed makes the most noise every time he opens his mouth, would have us do a little weaving. You saw the result…Is your husband not well?’

  ‘No; I’m sorry to say he had an accident on board.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I only know he’s not well. It’s so unlike him to lie still; he’s such a live wire.’

  ‘So I understand from your neighbour. You had a little contretemps back in the bay. Is he a teacher of Latin?’

  ‘No; he’s a maths master, but well versed in Latin,’ Sally said proudly.

  He laughed again, saying, ‘So I was given to understand. Apparently he didn’t expect Horace to be understood. When the youngster on board came back at him, literally with chapter and verse, “I abhor the unhallowed mob and hold it aloof,” it must have shaken him a bit: from their Mancunian accents he hadn’t expected that.’

  Her voice stiff, Sally said, ‘You seem to have learned a lot about us in a very short time.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t be annoyed, because it pleased me yet again to know that one should never go on face values. You see, that neighbour of yours turned out to be a very thoughtful individual. On first acquaintance, I wasn’t taken with him myself. But not seeing your husband out and about, and you having to take the dog out, and his wife, glimpsing you in the bows looking very distressed, thought there must be something wrong…’

  Oh, dear God! That was the night of the accident when she had sat crying. Fred had gone to sleep. He had eaten nothing all day, and still he wouldn’t let her call a doctor, or look at his back.

  ‘Now what did our gentleman from Manchester do? It would appear that his boat being next to ours he heard Big Charlie and Peter arguing, and Charlie referring to Peter as a doctor who thought he knew everything. So he came to me and said that he thought you must be worried about your husband, and if my friend was really a doctor perhaps he could talk to him. So please don’t be annoyed when I say that Peter has gone along to your boat now and gatecrashed in. I’d give him a few more minutes before you return. Now don’t worry; he’s a very tactful fellow.’

  To say she was amazed was putting it mildly, not only where the three young men were concerned, but also by the fact that their hated neighbour had shown so much feeling. As this man had said, one should not go on face values…Well, one lived and learned, if one was sensible.

  ‘Are you a doctor too?’

  ‘No.’ He gave a gurgle of a laugh. ‘I’m a budding priest. Parson would be the ordinary name for it. I’ve never been able to see why the Catholic clergy can be dubbed priests, but Protestants, although on the same road, are generally known as parsons.’

  Sally had nothing to say; actually she was dumbfounded. Here was this fellow who was wearing the oldest-looking pullover she had ever seen and a pair of patched trousers, his feet bare except for a pair of open-toed sandals, saying he was studying for the priesthood.

  She heard herself ask, ‘Where do you think your parish will be?’ She was imagining somewhere in a middle-class area, when he amazed her further by saying, ‘As near my father’s as possible, in the East End of London.’

  She looked at him blankly, then managed to mutter, ‘It’s as you said a while ago, one lives and learns. Now, I’d better
get back, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, of course. The introductions will be over by now. And talking of introductions, my name’s James Watson.’

  Before he moved away, he bent and patted Bill’s head, saying, ‘He’s a splendid-looking fellow. My mother has a bulldog. She thinks she’s wonderful, but now she slavers all the time and snores. She’s thirteen years old.’

  All she could do was nod at him and smile.

  Before she stepped into Dogfish Three she held up a finger in warning to Bill, and said, with authority, ‘Quiet now! Quiet!’

  She stepped over the gunwale and onto the seat without rocking the boat. When Bill stood beside her she led him to his usual corner on the leather seat and fixed his lead round one of the canopy posts, so that he could not jump down; then moved quietly to the steps leading into the cabin, and listened to a voice saying, ‘Good Lord!’ which had a laugh behind it. ‘If you made a slight slit in that and laced it up, you’d have a miniature football…Pains badly?’

  ‘Not so much as my neck.’

  ‘Yes; that’s bound to be affected by it. Well, as I said, you have a bad case of concussion. And, as you know, the only cure for that is rest for two or three days. Well, if they yank you off to hospital, it could be longer, you know. How’s the back?’

  There was a long pause before she heard Fred say, ‘Pretty sore.’

  ‘We’d better have a look at it, then.’

  At this point, Sally thought she should make her appearance, for, once that pyjama jacket was put back on again, she had a suspicion she wouldn’t be given the chance to see the damage to his back.

  ‘Oh! Hello there, Mrs Carpenter. Believe it or not, I’m a doctor. Peter Wheeler, one of the mad hatters from the beached craft. Your husband has had a very nasty fall; I’m about to have a look at his back. Perhaps you’ll help me off with his pyjama coat.’

  As yet, she hadn’t opened her mouth. That was until she had gently eased Fred out of one sleeve of his pyjamas, when it was almost a shout she emitted: ‘Oh, my God! What have you done to your back?’