Second Lover

by Gill Sanderson

  ‘There’s nothing more evocative than the sound of rain on a tent,’ he told her.

  ‘Not while you’re studying.’

  He studied her a minute, and then said, ‘You were going to tell me more about what happened when Gavin died, and then you changed your mind. D’you want to tell me now?’

  He was too quick! ‘You can read me like a book,’ she said, confused. ‘I don’t think I like it. You know what I’m feeling even when I’m not sure myself. It worries me.’

  He reached over a reassuring hand and gripped her forearm. ‘All I want to do is know you better. They say confession is good for the soul. You’ll feel better if you share your troubles.’

  ‘All right, perhaps I will… but not here and now… Ross, I think I want to go back to work now.’ Now she had agreed that she was hiding something, she felt panic rising in her. Some things were best kept to herself.

  ‘No problem, we’ll both go back.’ He smiled, reassuring her. ‘I’m not going to pressure you, Lyn.’ His smile turned into something different, a mischievous grin. ‘But you’re now in my department and I’m responsible for your professional behaviour and conduct. It’s my expert opinion that you need rest of a special kind. I’m prescribing a tonic, a short period of recuperation. You’ve no plans for Sunday?’

  ‘Well, I was going to…’

  ‘Don’t you dare say you were going to catch up on your washing and clean the flat.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘The flat and the washing can remain dirty.’

  ‘Good. I’ll pick you up Sunday morning, quite early, say about six o’clock. If you want you can sleep in the car.’

  She was intrigued. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘It’s going to be a surprise. Wear something warm and not too expensive, and trainers. It’ll be a complete change.’

  ‘Not going up a mountain?’

  ‘No. But it will be in the great outdoors. Looking forward to it?’

  ‘Since I don’t know what I’ll be doing, I can’t look forward to it,’ she pointed out. ‘But I suspect I shall enjoy myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. I’ll do the sandwiches and coffee, you can be a complete passenger.’

  ‘You said that on purpose, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘You know the number of times women are relegated to sandwich-making duties.’

  ‘I’m a New Man,’ he said smugly. ‘Well, parts of me are New Mannish.’

  She decided she was looking forward to the day.

  Lyn had never had any problem in getting up early. She rose, bathed, and breakfasted, and still was in plenty of time. It was while she was dressing that the first doubts crossed her mind. She found herself putting on the flannel shirt, the cord trousers, and the thick sweater that she had used to wear when she’d been out to the mountains with Gavin.

  She hadn’t worn any of them for nearly nine months.

  Bleak memories crowded her mind and for a moment she wished she’d never agreed to go on this trip. Was she getting involved with another Gavin? She’d sworn she would never do that.

  However, she had warned him and made her position clear: a house in the suburbs, two-point-four children, and a husband who came home every night. She would settle for nothing else.

  Then why are you going out with him today? a teasing voice asked. She was glad when she heard the noise of a diesel engine drawing up outside. It meant she didn’t have to think of an answer for the question.

  He had wanted an early start, so she wouldn’t invite him in for coffee. She skipped downstairs and looked at the waiting vehicle dubiously. She had seen its kind so often before.

  It was a long wheelbase Land Rover, battered and, by its number plate, not as old as it looked. Certainly it had not been used to drive quietly along the M25. It was the kind of vehicle used for expeditions through rough country. She’d been in this kind of vehicle, on those kind of expeditions, so often before.

  He came round the front of the vehicle to greet her.

  She felt an odd chill of recognition. So far she had only seen him in his more or less formal hospital clothes, or in a dinner jacket. Now, like her, he was wearing cords, thick shirt and sweater, and she recognised how comfortable he seemed in them. This was the kind of man he was. Not the kind of man she wanted any more.

  ‘I might have known you wouldn’t have a highly polished Jaguar,’ she told him.

  He looked mournful. ‘Afraid not. I am not highly polished, nor a Jaguar kind of man. Have I invited you out under false pretences, Lyn?’

  ‘Just for once I’ll forgive you.’ She took his hand as she climbed into the Land Rover. Then she looked behind her. There were seats for a possible four more passengers, but they were designed to convert into twin bunks, and there were lockers, and a tiny stove and sink. Everything was so familiar.

  He climbed in beside her, looked at her face and knew instantly what she was thinking. ‘Bring back memories?’ he asked. ‘Other Land Rovers, other trips?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered curtly. ‘I haven’t been in a vehicle like this for—quite some time.’

  ‘Perhaps demons should be outfaced, Lyn,’ he told her neutrally, and started the engine.

  ‘Not all the memories are bad. I’ve had many happy times as… as well as the bad ones.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope today will be happy. A new beginning, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she said.

  Because it was early, and Sunday, there wasn’t too much traffic around and he negotiated his way expertly through the north London suburbs and eventually onto the A127 and so east. She was intrigued. In spite of what he had said, she had half expected a mad dash for the nearest mountains. But there were no mountains this way. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Travelling hopefully is better than arriving,’ he told her. ‘Wait and be surprised. In fact, this bit of countryside isn’t too interesting. Why don’t you have a sleep?’

  She had slept so often in bumpy noisy vehicles like this. ‘All right, I will,’ she said, and reclined her seat.

  She didn’t sleep properly. But it was fun to doze there, and behind his seat there was stuffed an old oiled canvas jacket, smelling of rock and heather. That too brought back memories.

  Finally the Land Rover stopped. She opened her eyes and frowned. There was the smell of salt in the air and the screech of gulls. ‘We’re at the seaside,’ she mumbled, before pulling herself upright.

  ‘We are indeed. I trust you brought your bucket and spade.’

  She sat up. They were parked on a harbour wall, and in front of them were what seemed like a thousand yachts moored along a river. The sun was sparkling on the water and the breeze made ropes rattle against the masts. ‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been here before. Are we going for a walk round?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Certainly not. We’re going for a sail. You can swim, can’t you?’

  ‘I can swim. Ross, this is so exciting.’

  ‘We set off early so we could catch the tide. Come on, let’s get aboard.’

  He took two great canvas bags from the back of the Land Rover and led the way to a set of tall lockers. He unlocked one, took out a pair of oars, and handed them to her. ‘You can carry these.’ Then she was given a couple of life jackets. A minute later she was wearing one of them, sitting warily opposite him in the stern of what seemed to be the tiniest of dinghies as he rowed out towards the series of moored yachts. The canvas bags were between them.

  They bumped gently against the side of a dark blue painted yacht, called the Mary Ann. He tied the dinghy to it and then showed her how to vault aboard without falling into the water. There wasn’t much she could do. She sat in the cockpit as he scrambled up and down, pulling sails out of bags, fastening them to the mast, tightening some ropes and loosening others. It all looked incredibly complicated. But in time they were ready. The flapping sails were hoisted and pulled taut. Ross cast off the mooring, leaving the dinghy tied to it, and the yacht heel
ed over in the breeze.

  ‘I forgot to ask you,’ Ross said, ‘do you get seasick? If you do we can motor inland for a while.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been sailing before but I doubt it. I’ve never been travel-sick, and I’ve been on some quite rough cross-channel trips. And I don’t want to go inland; I want to go out to sea.’

  ‘Good. We’ll just clear the estuary and then I’ll show you how to steer.’

  ‘Whose boat is it? Is it yours?’

  ‘Afraid not, it belongs to my brother. But I borrow his boat and he borrows my Land Rover.’

  ‘You’ve never talked about your family, have you? In fact, when I think of the conversations we’ve had, they’ve mostly been about me. I want to talk about you for a change.’

  ‘We’ll talk about me later. Right now I want you to stop thinking and just feel. Sailing is the best antidote I know to deep and gloomy thoughts. Just enjoy it.’

  It was exhilarating. They seemed to be charging along at a tremendous rate, even though she knew that it couldn’t be too fast. The Mary Ann felt alive, like a horse.

  The sails hummed, the ropes tautened and slackened, they bounced from wave to wave. When they were well out to sea he taught her how to steer, how to respond to the variations in wind, putting the tiller up to catch it.

  She was enjoying herself. She could feel the strains and doubts of her weeks on the ward leaving her. She didn’t need to think any more about either work or her complicated private life. All she had to do was respond to the beauty of the scenery and the excitement of sailing.

  ‘We’re going to gybe now,’ Ross called. ‘That means this big spar, which is called a boom, is going to swing across. Mind your head!’ She did as she was told. The boom swung across with a jerk. For a moment the yacht hung motionless then she heeled over again and drove forward. ‘That’s called tacking,’ Ross told her.

  The afternoon passed all too quickly. Ross had brought two flasks, and she thought she had never tasted such fine coffee. She felt she was just getting the hang of how to steer when Ross said they had to be heading back; they had to catch the tide again. He guided them up the river, and as the wind had largely died by this time they ghosted up quietly, making twin ripples in the now mirror-like water. Following his directions, she leaned overboard and grabbed for the little orange buoy that marked their moorings. When the yacht was moored there was the process of taking down the sails again. This time she helped, wanting to know what to do next time.

  ‘Do we have to go straight ashore?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not at all but you must be hungry. There are a number of good pubs and restaurants nearby, but if you want I’ve brought the makings of a meal and I can cook for you here.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, I’m ravenous. And I want to eat here if we possibly can. It’s so peaceful and beautiful.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s the equivalent of squatting by a smoky fire grilling lumps of meat?’ he teased.

  She remembered that she had said that to him while they’d been overlooking the Thames, and felt slightly embarrassed. ‘Perhaps it is. But I’ll put up with it for once. Though how I’d feel if I had to spend a week on board, I don’t know.’

  ‘You get used to it. The galley below is quite efficient, so sit here and I’ll go and see what I can cook.’

  She felt that she ought to protest. ‘Can’t I do something, Ross? You’ve done everything so far. I’m not completely useless, you know.’

  ‘No one would accuse you of being useless. But today is different; this is part of the treatment prescribed by your doctor—in this case, me. You are to take things entirely easy. In any case, you know what they say about two cooks in one kitchen—well, the galley isn’t small, it’s midget. Only room for one. Sit here and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘All right, I will.’ She had seen the galley and, as he’d said, there was only room for one. The rest of the boat below was a miracle of compression. There were four bunks, an abundance of lockers and an assortment of nautical equipment. It looked neat and cosy at the moment, but what it would be like with four people living in it at sea, she didn’t like to think.

  It was so peaceful sitting out here in the cockpit. The sun was burning gold across the water, there was the ever-present cry of gulls and there was that seaside presence of salt and mud that she had only ever smelled in England.

  ‘Start with an orange juice.’ His head and shoulders appeared from the hatch down into the yacht, and he handed her a glass. ‘Enjoying the view?’

  She was. ‘Very much so. You know, Ross, now that I’m relaxing I’ve realised just how uptight I’ve been getting. This has been so good for me.’

  ‘Good. Look, it’s not too cold; I thought we’d eat here in the open air. If you reach behind you there’s a table-top stored there that fits across the cockpit.’ She was fitting it as he ducked back to fetch the meal.

  It was simple but satisfying. He’d fried chopped ham, eggs, and an assortment of vegetables. Then he’d slid the mixture into a couple of large buttered rolls and put the rolls in the oven for five minutes.

  To drink, there was more fruit juice. ‘We’re driving,’ he apologised. ‘So no alcohol.’ It was a rule she very much approved of.

  Afterwards there was coffee and a couple of cakes from an obviously expensive shop. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘absolutely no argument. I am going to wash up. It’s your turn to sit and admire the view.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. And don’t say I won’t know how—I’ve washed up in far worse places than this.’

  ‘All right, then, but there’s more coffee in the pot. I’ll wait and we’ll have the last drink together.’

  ‘Suits me.’ Washing up turned out to be no task at all, for Ross had largely cleaned as he’d cooked. She was back on deck inside five minutes, pouring coffee from the freshly warmed pot.

  Dusk was drawing in and lights were appearing in the cottages on the shoreline, and on one or two of the yachts. As yet there was no chill in the air. Both drank their coffee, sitting together in companionable silence. When he finished his coffee and stretched his arm behind her, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean against him, to put her head on his shoulder, to wrap her free arm round his waist.

  ‘Why do I work so hard when I’m equally happy doing nothing?’ she asked drowsily.

  ‘Typical addict’s complaint. Drinkers, smokers, drug addicts, all wonder why they bothered when they’re cured. It’s just that you’re addicted to work.’

  She smacked him, gently. ‘If I’m addicted to work, then you’re addicted to telling me about it. I get a sermon every time we meet.’

  ‘It’s because I care about my junior staff.’ He put his other arm round her, and drew her to him. ‘Are you comfortable there?’

  ‘Wonderfully,’ she told him.

  They sat in silence a while longer, and then he said gently, ‘Lyn, remember in the pub on Friday, you said there was something about what you felt when Gavin died. It was obviously troubling you. You wouldn’t tell me then, do you want to tell me now?’

  No, she didn’t want to tell him. But she thought she was going to. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she had bottled up too much. ‘I’ve never told this to anyone,’ she said. ‘I’m not even sure what it means.’

  He didn’t answer, just squeezed her. She went on, ‘You know, there are all sorts of reactions to a… sudden death. There’s disbelief, horror, sometimes even anger at the person who’s died. They all take time to work through.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Well, when I heard that Gavin was dead, I was shocked—devastated in fact. He’d been the centre of my life. I’d had nothing to do with any other man than him for the past four years. And now he was gone. What was I to do? It was only about a week later that I started to feel something else.’

  She wasn’t calm, at peace any more. She could feel the tears running down her face and her heart was beating faster, her breath com
ing quicker and quicker.

  ‘Then I had to go to a memorial service for him. There was no proper funeral; he’d been buried in Borneo. And all his old friends whom I’d known so long, they all were there. They thought I was crying for him, but I wasn’t. I’d just realised the emotion I was feeling and it horrified me. It horrifies me still.’

  ‘Tell me, Lyn,’ he urged. ‘You know you need to.’

  ‘All right, I will: the emotion I felt was relief. During the four years that I knew him, whenever he had the chance he was away on some dangerous madcap expedition. Three of his friends died while I knew him and all he did was laugh. Then he died and I think I was half expecting it, and at long last I didn’t have to worry any more. I felt relief, Ross! I would never have to be sick with worry again.’

  She leaned against him, sobbing. ‘Never again,’ he heard her muffled voice. ‘Never, never, never worry again.’

  They sat without speaking then, the only sound the gurgle of the ebbing tide as it eddied round the hull. Her head slowly drooped, and he eased her so that she rested on his lap. His canvas coat was on the side of the cockpit, and gently he drew it round her to protect her from the evening air. Against his thigh he could feel the rise and fall of her chest; it slowed further and he knew she was asleep. As a doctor he knew it was a common reaction to stress, to pain, physical and mental. The body was a machine that could only take so much. When it was over-taxed it would shut down.

  After perhaps an hour he felt her stir. She pushed herself upright, rubbed at her eyes, and yawned. ‘I fell asleep,’ she said, sounding bewildered. ‘I didn’t know I was that tired.’

  ‘It’s the sea air,’ he said, knowing that it wasn’t. ‘It makes everybody sleepy.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She was coming awake now. ‘Ross, I told you things I’ve never told anyone before. I feel vulnerable. And I shouldn’t have troubled you with my problems.’