by Jeremy Page
When he looks back along the beach he sees them half-turned, half-facing him. They look windblown and abandoned and untrustworthy. The first dog is shivering with the attack it nearly made, a twisted strain in its eye that Guy still can’t trust, can’t quite turn his back on. And knowing the danger has not truly passed, he carries on walking, steadily, one step at a time, destroying their wildness with his own simple desire to continue, returning now, needing to return, his journey over.
III
It’s late at night, later than she intended, and Judy is still sitting at the small desk in Guy’s cabin on the Flood. She’s been here for several hours. When she arrived, the barge had been at an angle on the mud, but in the past hour or two it has lifted with the tide. She doesn’t like the new motion the boat has, the way the shadows move inch by inch every so often in the room, the way the barge makes quiet noises as the water drifts outside. The boat feels alive to her - the empty spaces of its cabins feel expectant and eerie.
On the desk are his diaries. All of them, from the past five years. She’s spent the evening reading them, and a few seconds ago a single tear had welled in the corner of her eye and then tipped on to the page, instantly smudging the ink. Judy had looked at the mark the tear made. She hasn’t cried for such a long time.
She looks around her at his cabin, his possessions, his photograph of starlings flying over the estuary that hangs above the desk. She knows so little about the years he has spent on this boat, day in, day out, making his life here, in this space. She thought she knew Guy - completely knew him - but she doesn’t. He has had a life since them, and she’s been no part of it.
Judy moves the diaries to one side. She composes herself, then dials a number on her phone.
‘Hello, is that Marta Sheridan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hi. I’m sorry to call you like this. Can you talk?’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Judy. I think you might know my ex-husband.’
Judy waits, but there is no response.
‘Guy? From the Flood.’
It takes a moment before she hears a reply. ‘Oh - oh yes.’
‘Sorry to be direct, but I assume you haven’t heard from him?’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘I see.’
‘Should I have done?’
‘I don’t know.’
She hears Marta give a quick, confused laugh. ‘I’m a bit lost. Could you tell me what this is all about?’
‘Of course. Look - is there any chance we could meet? It’s just I’d rather we didn’t do this on the phone. It’s - delicate. Where do you live?’
‘In Cambridge.’
‘Would it be possible for you to drive here, to his boat? It’s moored on the Blackwater estuary, at the Tide Mill, really not very far from you. Maybe an hour’s drive? Do you know it?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m absolutely swamped here - there’s so much to do. Please come and we can talk this through - I’m sorry to be so mysterious, but I think it’s best. We should meet in person. You’ll understand. Would that be OK?’
Marta is a long time considering this. ‘Well - I’m not sure. It seems very strange.’
‘I know, but I’d rather. I have something for you.’
Judy’s insistence is hard to refuse.
‘OK then.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Judy - just one thing - how did you get this number?’
‘Oh. It was on his mobile.’
It’s a bright sunny morning when Marta parks her car at the Tide Mill Arms and walks along the quay to the Flood. For the last half an hour she’s been getting increasingly nervous. From what she remembers, she didn’t think Guy was even on speaking terms with his ex-wife.
Several of the barges are beyond repair, and have been left in this place to rot in their own pools of leaking engine oil and snapped cables. Water shines darkly within some of the hulls. But among the general dereliction, his boat stands out as being stronger, more cared for. She sees how precisely Guy has painted The Flood, Blackwater in glossy green letters on a white signboard below the stern, and the neatness with which the varnish has been seasonally applied to the wheelhouse mullions.
At the end of its gangway she sees a dog, lying patiently in the sun, his head resting on his front two paws. He starts wagging his tail as she approaches, so she bends down to him and makes a big fuss of rubbing his belly and stroking his hair.
‘That’s his dog,’ a voice says. ‘He’s called Banjo.’
Marta glances up to see a small woman with dark hair looking down at her from the wheelhouse. She looks older than her voice had been on the phone, with a serious expression Marta hadn’t imagined. She’s wearing jeans and a man’s shirt covered in splatters of paint, and has her hair tied back away from her face. Everything about her gives the impression she’s busy. ‘I’m Judy,’ she says, quickly.
‘Marta Sheridan.’
‘Thanks for coming here. There’s so much to do,’ Judy says, moving a box full of papers from one side of the wheelhouse to the other.
Climbing the gangplank Marta feels suddenly overwhelmed - there are things that are demanding her attention, all round her, differences to this boat that she should be noticing: someone has recently fixed a heavy padlock across the sliding wheelhouse door, and a glued paper notice has been stuck to one of the windows. Enquiries, and information, care of the Harbour Master, it says, followed by a phone number and an email address.
The deck is scoured clean with the signs of a considerable storm. And the greatest difference on the Flood is now a specific absence: the winch above the stern, where she’s sure the inflatable had hung from two chains. There’s nothing there now.
‘Sorry it’s such a mess,’ Judy says as Marta enters. ‘And thanks so much for agreeing to this.’
Marta sits on one of the bench seats in the wheelhouse, thinking it might be best not to speak. Tread carefully. She’s instantly wary of the way Judy is avoiding looking at her.
‘I feel stupid asking you to come all this way. It was dumb of me,’ Judy says, sounding hesitant. ‘I’m a bit all over the place - and I was curious I guess, curious to meet you.’
‘Is Guy here?’ Marta says.
Judy reacts, taken aback, giving Marta a quick dark look.
‘Guy’s been missing for two months,’ Judy says. She seems suddenly calm and watchful of Marta’s reaction. ‘I wanted to tell you in person.’
Marta looks away. She hadn’t expected this. She looks at the grooved planking of the wheelhouse and is struck by the smell of polished wood and enclosed space in here, of oil and saltwater and somewhere, she thinks, the smell of the man, in the trapped air. She leans towards the door and slides it shut, not wanting this fleeting presence of him to escape. She feels entirely unprepared for this.
‘What do you mean, missing?’
‘I’m sorry, I guess that was a shock?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Flood was found off the coast of Germany - we’ve just had it brought back, so his stuff can be sorted out.’ Judy softens slightly, having said what needed to be said. ‘Sorry to surprise you like that. There’s no easy way to say these things.’
There are easier ways, Marta thinks, but she doesn’t want to be antagonistic. She nods, in acknowledgement. She doesn’t know what to say.
‘I should’ve told you on the phone. I’m sorry.’ Judy seems full of doubt, on his boat, surrounded by his things, talking about him. ‘Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?’
‘I’m OK,’ Marta says.
‘How did you know him?’ Judy asks.
‘Well - I’m not really sure how much I did know him. We met on the water, at the Deben Estuary in Suffolk.’
‘At the Rushcutter’s?’ Judy says.
‘Yes.’
‘We did our first gig there.’
‘He told me.’ Marta looks out of the wheelhouse window at the length of the barge.
His boat. It’s so full of his presence. ‘I don’t understand.’
Judy reaches down for a map she’s clearly had prepared, by her side. She passes it to Marta. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’ve marked the place.’
Marta sees it’s Guy’s map of the North Sea. On the right hand side, near the German/Danish border, a small collection of islands has been circled with a pencil. While she looks, Judy tells her that a couple of months ago, on a Sunday morning, she’d had a phone call. She tells Marta how odd it had been, to suddenly hear the thickly accented German coastguard. And his professional politeness as he explained where he was calling from, how he had to spell out North Friesland twice, how, after telling her that the Flood had been found adrift off the island called Sylt, he’d hesitated, had said the inflatable was missing, but there were no signs of foul play. And how he’d added, as an afterthought, that in the saloon they’d found a bird in a box, which they’d released on the dunes. They had been happy to see it fly, he’d said. He didn’t know the English name for it, but had said Grünfink, and spelt that out, too.
‘After I put the phone down, I had to look it up on an atlas. You see them? Just down from Denmark. Sylt, Nordfriesische Inseln,’ she says, with a flourish. ‘See - that weird shape at the top - it’s a spit called der Ellenbogen - which means elbow. It’s like an arm, isn’t it - like it’s stretched out to sea to catch his boat. It was found near there.’
‘This is quite a lot to take in,’ Marta says.
‘Sorry. Am I rushing you? I often rush.’
‘When you say it was drifting . . .’ Marta asks. She can feel how reddened her cheeks must be. She’s always blushed like this. Especially with unexpected news.
‘I don’t know much about boats. I think that just means it wasn’t sinking.’
Marta feels totally empty. Emptied. ‘Grünfink means greenfinch, ’ she says.
‘Oh. Does it?’
She explains. ‘He had it in a cardboard box in the cabin. He said he’d found it floating in the sea - it must have blown offshore.’
Judy looks back at Marta, nonplussed. ‘I have to ask you, when you were with him, did he say anything that might give us some kind of . . .’
‘. . . hope?’ Marta guesses.
‘Clue, I was going to say.’
‘I don’t think so. I didn’t really get to say goodbye.’
‘He was a very private man, don’t you think? Very private. Do you know about his diaries?’ Judy asks.
‘A little.’
‘Did he talk about them?’
‘No. Not much.’
‘But you do know what they’re about?’
‘He told me they’re about you and him. And your daughter.’
‘Freya,’ Judy says.
‘Yes.’
‘What exactly was going on between you and Guy?’ Judy asks quickly. ‘It’s just I don’t really know who you are, or why you meant so much to him.’
‘Me?’
‘I’m sorry about all this, Marta - I really am.’ Judy seems suddenly without her energy. Marta waits, wrong-footed again, and when she’s sure Judy’s being sincere, she nods.
‘Was there any kind of note?’
‘Nothing. Nothing for two months.’
‘It’s unbelievable,’ she says. Marta looks out of the window at Banjo, still sitting at the end of the gangway. ‘What’s going to happen to his dog?’ she asks.
‘He’ll be looked after here. You know, he sits there every day, apparently, looking out over the water. It’s sad.’
‘He’s waiting.’
‘Yes.’
Marta looks at the dog. Sensing he’s being talked about, Banjo begins a slow sweeping wag of his tail.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Marta asks, aware that in the corner of her eye Judy is studying her.
‘Well - don’t you think it’s strange, you and me meeting like this?’
‘Yes. It’s very strange.’
‘I’m like his past, you see. And you - well, you might’ve been his future.’ Judy gives Marta a smile. It’s not convincing. ‘Wait here a second,’ she says, standing in order to go down to the saloon. She’s a small woman, and as she passes, Marta realizes Judy’s pregnant. She hadn’t drawn any attention to it. But now, going down the ladder, she holds the guide rail as carefully as she can.
Marta sits still, confused by their meeting. Judy seems impenetrable. Marta thinks she’s seeing her in minor details, like a wall built too close, which she can’t see beyond to find out why it was put up in the first place.
The wheelhouse is just as she remembers, apart from the signs of a search the German coastguards must have made. Maybe they went through the emergency gear to see what may have been used and what may be missing. The postcard of the Norwegian fjord is still there, next to the magazine picture of the basking shark, stuck behind the wheel, like clues in a mystery; and the embroidered cushion she’d noticed before - a curiously sweet image of a river scene, is still there on the side. She puts her glasses on and looks at the Norwegian postcard. Strangely, she sees it’s addressed to the skipper of a fishing trawler, the Indomitable, care of Yarmouth Harbour.
Judy takes a long time. Marta sees the steps leading down into Guy’s cabin behind her and remembers the night she’d rowed over to visit him. She imagines descending the steps now, half-expecting that he would be in there, lying on his bed, like she’d last seen him. She had wanted to offer herself that night, to share herself, except she’d been clumsy and rash and had driven him away. She’s sure of it.
She wishes she could go down those steps once more. But what would be down there? What remains of the man after he’s gone? She would sit at the same spot she’d chosen before, at the foot of his bunk, looking at his empty pillow. Maybe she would smell the pillow, or maybe she’d stop herself short of doing this.
‘I’ve come back,’ she would say, out loud. The same words she said to him before, sitting in that place. But this time she imagines their conversation would have to swap round, with each of them speaking the other’s lines:
‘I’m sorry,’ he would say.
‘Where did you go?’ she would reply.
‘Just rowed.’
She would smile at him.
‘Sorry for being upset before,’ he would say.
‘You don’t need to be.’
Judy returns to the wheelhouse, carrying several hardbound books. Marta recognizes them for the diaries Guy had been writing.
‘They were found tied to the life-ring,’ Judy says, with a smile. ‘Quite symbolic, don’t you think?’ Judy reaches out and touches Marta on the shoulder, surprisingly. ‘I’ve been rude to you.’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. It’s hard to know that a man you once loved could ever choose anyone else.’
With that, Judy looks frankly at Marta. ‘You’re different to how I imagined you,’ she adds, and Marta looks back, knowing, in this instant, in the slight readjusting of Judy’s gaze, that she is seeing an unguarded truth. An understanding that passes between them: that their lives have intersected and will part almost immediately, but that they share a connection.
‘You’re different, too,’ Marta acknowledges. ‘I wondered about you.’
‘I never knew about Guy writing all this,’ Judy explains, her voice softer and deeper. ‘I’ve read them all now. Maybe I’ll regret that - I’m not sure. This other life he had - I guess it was his way of dealing with - with what happened. He really tried, you know, to believe in it. I never thought I’d say this, but until I read these, I don’t think I ever knew him. Isn’t that strange? It’s made me change my view of the last five years. I wish I could tell him that.’
‘And why are you telling me?’ Marta asks.
‘Because at some point out there’ - Judy points towards the sea - ‘he stopped writing about me and Freya. Maybe he found out all he needed to know. We might never get the answer to that. He began to write something else. I have it here. He wrote about coming back to England in this boat, i
magining what he would do, and how his life might turn out. It’s all about you, Marta. I want you to read it.’
With that, Judy hands a small black notebook to Marta.
‘This is it,’ she says. ‘You see, he was imagining a new start.’
‘Have you read it?’ Marta asks.
‘Would you, if you were me?’ Judy replies.
Marta looks down at the notebook. All that remains of him. She looks up at Judy.
‘Did Guy know you’re pregnant?’ Marta asks.
Judy gives out a sigh. ‘Before he went, he came to see me. He guessed.’ She smiles, bravely. ‘I’m going to go now - I’ve spent too long on this boat already, it’s upsetting. Could you close the padlock when you leave?’
‘I’m glad we’ve met,’ Judy adds. ‘We won’t see each other again.’
Marta nods. She watches Judy leave the wheelhouse and walk thoughtfully down the gangplank, taking the rest of his diaries with her.
‘Judy?’ she calls. ‘I need to tell you. Guy saved my daughter’s life. I’m pretty sure of it. She fell off the boat. He saved her.’
