Find Another Place

by Ben Graff

  You + me = I or n or ∏ r 2.

  So there. Juggle those figures, my mathematical tycoon. The answer should be something in the region of 15 (prs of knickers!?).

  Now, having worried myself funny over the interview with the head, over you & your job & you and your flat, I’ll find something else to dedicate my creative talents too. (English! Ugh!) I read somewhere that the greater proportion of things one worries about never happen. So having proved this right, I’ll just keep on worrying in case they do!!

  NO. I refuse.

  Instead I’ll tell you how much I want to be with you. I was glad to see you need me this weekend. Honestly darling I do want to help you. You do seem so confident sometimes. Yet not others. I know exactly how you felt because I feel much the same and have done for years – even though I was near home – when I had to go back to college & here.

  As I told you, I’ve been homesick for my parents and the Isle of Wight just lately.

  I’m ever so tired now love after a session of lesson planning & report writing & after a school meeting, so I’ll stop, but I’ll write again very soon.

  All the very best darling at work – I believe you’re a match for any of them.

  All my love darling,

  I think of you so often.

  Mary

  Down In The Dumps

  20, Stockmead,

  Langford,

  Bristol.

  Tues.

  Darling,

  I’ve just come back from the phone feeling down in the dumps again. Obviously I’ve no right to deprive you of your holiday & one way or another you ought to have one & I won’t stop you.

  I’ve just been thinking over my financial situation though, & it’s not quite as bad as I thought. When I added up approximately what I should earn for June, July & August + what I already have I should have about £300. It may not be quite as much as that owing to unforeseen expenses, but it’s certainly more hopeful. Tell me what you think on Thursday darling – I hope you get this before you phone. I could certainly afford something, don’t you think? Even perhaps Greece?

  I had to write to you about this. I expect you may be feeling a little resentful about the fact that I don’t appear to trust you. You said a long time ago that love is founded on mutual trust & respect. I agree & I’m not really doubting you darling. Deep down I trust you implicitly with other women – but at the back of my mind there’s always the feeling that they may have more to offer than me, at least in the obvious way. It’s childish, I agree. But even though you might go into something lightly & not mean it, I would still feel slighted.

  I’ll stop talking this way. Even as I write I can see it’s all nonsense. But I do expect a lot from you just as you do from me. And I do trust you, whatever you may think from what I say on the spur of the moment.

  I must stop now darling as I’m very tired. School work is piling up as ever.

  I do love you my darling, I’ll speak to you soon – you must get through.

  I really do think I’ll be able to come with you now darling. Obviously something cheaper would be better, but I might manage Greece. But as I said I’d like your opinion.

  All my love, darling.

  I’m falling asleep.

  Wish I could hold you tight.

  Mary

  Tahiti Blue

  22, Kingsgate Est,

  Tottenham Rd,

  London N.1

  Tuesday 21st April, 1970

  Darling,

  I’m really sorry that I couldn’t write yesterday but before you start going mad let me explain what’s happening. When we got back on Sunday evening I suddenly realised that I hadn’t give you your pound back & that you probably needed it quite urgently. So I dashed upstairs, put it in an envelope & posted it straight away in the hope that I could get the 7.30 post & you’d get your pound on Monday morning. It wasn’t till I got to the post box that I realised there wasn’t a 7.30 post but I thought I’d post it anyway. That’s why there wasn’t any note with it – I didn’t want to miss the post by writing a note.

  Yesterday morning I bought the car we saw on Sunday. I’ll be picking it up tomorrow night. It’s a pretty basic sort of a car but I’ve had a heater fitted + one other luxury: yellow number plates! The colour is called Tahiti Blue but the salesman wouldn’t let me have the version that came with the native women in grass skirts! I drove it around for about 2¼ hr and it’s definitely a very nippy car – a bit like your father’s. I think we’ll get a lot of pleasure from it and although it was a bit of a strain this weekend looking for cars I think you’ll agree we’ve ended up with the right one.

  After buying the car in the morning I went home for something to eat & spent about an hour writing off to various people cancelling interviews (I got another one yesterday – it was virtually an offer of a job. By a complete coincidence it came from Elliot Brothers, Rochester, who apparently got my name from an agency!) and then I went to Frinley to have another look for flats. The journey was completely unsuccessful, and I’m going to have to start looking further afield for something satisfactory. I’ll go down again on Thursday – in the new vehicle of course – and see what I can find.

  I hope you got back to Bristol all right & didn’t have too much trouble on Monday morning at school. As far as your new job is concerned I think that it’ll be easier for you to find somewhere & then for me to move near you rather than vice versa. Everything seems to be in a state of flux at the moment but things will be much better when we’re together again. We’ll be able to go to lots of places (the car’s very cheap to run) and if we don’t want to do that we can stay at home and do whatever we like. I think it’ll even be nice to argue with you all the time because at least that will mean you’re there! I can’t say that I’m exactly looking forward to being by myself from next week so you’ll have to promise to come & see me often – if not frequently. I’ll be able to pick you up in Reading and take you straight back to my place where we can discuss all sorts of things – computer program if you like! That sounds familiar somehow.

  Anyway, I have to go now darling. I’m going to the West-End to see if I can buy some books about systems engineering so that at least I’ll be able to find the right department on Monday morning. Take care of yourself my love. I love you very much. Even if you can’t cook!

  See you soon.

  Love

  Colin xx

  Life Apart

  5th January 1971

  My darling,

  Today I have missed you so much. I miss you coming up behind me & giving me a big kiss, & I miss the secure feeling of knowing that you are there, sitting on your knee in the evening – it’s not a bit the same sitting on my own. I love you.

  Today I worked all day till this evening when I felt sleepy & wanted to cuddle you. I hope you are not too much alone in your little room. I don’t know if you are playing bridge. If not I can only presume that you are cooking eggs rather brilliantly & watching Panorama. You might of course be playing Patience if you remembered your cards but I don’t mind about that as long as you haven’t got any Margarets or Chrises to entertain you.

  I can promise you that today I have met no strange men, no young or old liberals, have not got drunk, nor have I done anything of which you would disapprove except worry about you. (Not really.)

  Dad was asked at the Rotary club today by one of his friends when I was getting engaged to that nice young man. All I can say is if they could hear you early in the morning… I still love you.

  I don’t think that there is much more news except that I have finished the exam papers and am now writing feverishly about “Wuthering Heights”.

  Kay & I talked for a couple of hours last night so I’m a bit tired now. They must be having a horrid drive up to Lancaster today, what with the fog.

  I won’t write you a poem tonight, but I think ab
out all the good things we did last week & feel happy.

  How is your car?

  Only drawing for today.

  I look forward to seeing you again very soon, my love.

  I miss you,

  Mary

  Xxxxxx

  Missing You

  My darling,

  I felt stricken when I realised that you might be over tomorrow evening & I hadn’t even written one line to tell you that I love you.

  I felt terribly sad leaving you on Sunday evening. You were so sweet to me & kept saying that I should have a rest. Which was very loving of you. On the boat I felt strange, because you’ve been with me so much lately that I feel utterly lost on my own. To be without you now would be unthinkable.

  I am so looking forward to you coming over & hope that the sun stays as hot as it is now – you’d love it.

  In the sun you’re just like a pussy – no! You’re handsome, strong & sexy – & curl up like a pussy. I’m not mad, but I love you, I love you, I love you.

  At the moment I’m supposed to be cooking lunch as Mum is working. It’s super out, but I haven’t been in the sun yet today as I decided to make a quick trip to Ryde. You haven’t phoned since I’ve been in, so I hope I haven’t missed you. I’m still not very brown so you’ll have plenty of chance to catch up provided the weather lasts.

  I love you so much, my darling.

  From Mary xxxxx

  Worry So Much

  20 Stockmead,

  Langford,

  Bristol.

  Thursday

  Darling,

  I miss you. I don’t know what happened tonight. I waited from 6.55-7.25 and you didn’t phone. During that time I had visions of you being ill, being with another girl & doing about 50 other things. I do hope you’re OK & that you haven’t been gadding about. I’ve suddenly realised that you may not like being alone & am trying to reconcile myself to what may happen. If I go on any longer I’ll convince myself…

  This evening I’ve been worried. I hate not seeing you at the weekend, two weeks goes by so slowly – one is bad enough.

  I won’t go on darling. You should get this on Saturday morning, by which time I really hope to have spoken to you. I got this letter when I got in this evening. I’m thrilled about your new place. I just hope you want me there still. Your job sounds ideal, money and all! I’ve just discovered that predictably enough, my pay rise has been swallowed up by Union fees. Big deal!

  Do have a rest, my love, & do take care. I worry so much about you.

  All my love Mary

  You’re Super

  My darling,

  I’ve just torn up one letter to you & I’ve no time to write properly. This is just to say that you’re super, my writing’s awful & I miss you.

  Thank you for phoning just now.

  I’m as nervous as anything.

  Take care love

  See you very soon

  All love

  Mary

  Boats

  Martin’s boat was called October. It had sail and engine, a small cabin with a blue canopy and a white seaweed-flecked hull. It was not always easy to get her to start and we would wait on the pontoon while he fiddled with the starter motor, trying not to put him off. We would watch him swear softly under his breath, which somehow did not detract from his vaguely noble presence. After what seemed like forever, exasperation and tinkering would yield results and October would sputter into life. We would all climb on board, finally in business, knowing not to remark on the struggle that had just ensued. The noise from the engine, the smell of the motor and the breeze were all more acute when on deck, at the beginning of another summer day.

  We would use the engine to get out of Wootton Creek, weaving past moored-up vessels of all shapes and sizes. Elite racing sailing boats, a catamaran that had circumvented the globe which was owned by an airline pilot, big rusted metal fishing boats, and an array of smaller motor and sailing craft all resting at their buoys. Their names spoke to poetry and possibility: Black Knight of Wight, Avril, Red Admiral.

  At the mouth of the estuary, at the Fishbourne terminal, we would pass the car ferries loading and unloading. The thump of wheels on metal, the service announcements carrying across the water, and we would wave to the passengers as they took up their vantage points on the outside decks.

  The ferries had grown much as we had. When we were smaller, it was Fishbourne, Camber Queen, Cuthered and Cadman, all replaced over time by the much larger Saint class of boats. More space but less soul, and locals complained that they brought with them too much traffic for the Island’s roads, and that they caused coastal erosion to the land around the terminal’s fringes. Of the old ferries Cuthered had been my favourite; with its box-like frame, a certain stoutness, she was the first one I had actual memories of sailing on.

  Once our engine stalled as we stood in Cadman’s path, threatening to crush October like balsa wood under her metal frame, pulling what remained into her wake. Small as she was for a ferry, she was a lot bigger than us. We were like prey, just waiting to be eaten. Could they see us from the bridge, and if they could, then would they be able to do anything?

  Martin, completely calm now faced with a real emergency, fiddled with the engine. I could see the look of urgency on his face and the focus. He knew what could be tried, what might work, and he meticulously executed the options, not speaking, all his energy focussed on the problem in hand, gently coaxing October back to life as if through some mix of magic and alchemy. He had no time for swearing now. A moment that turned out to be nothing and might have been nothing anyway, but I remembered it – for his calmness and skill, bringing about a resolution before Cadman was close enough to give a sense of what, if anything, she might have done had we not moved.

  Often we would fish for mackerel with spinners. Martin would later gut the fish and everyone apart from me would eat them. They would tug violently on the line and he would help us reel them in, extracting hooks from their bloodied mouths, glassy eyes staring up at us. The mackerel would flash silver and green and sometimes keep breathing and flapping for a long time in the ice bucket. I didn’t like the way they seemed to stare up at me, both accusing and unknowing. New smells mixing with the fumes from our engine. Secretly I was always relieved when I reeled in clumps of seaweed.

  We would take a picnic sometimes, occasionally using the inflatable to go to shore and eat sandwiches and crisps, fruit and biscuits, flasks of tea, cartons of juice, all kept cool in the fridge box. We might put the cricket on the radio or explore the rock pools. Swim. We would have competitions as to who of me, Matt or Dad could start swimming first, the Solent always chilled, irrespective of the sun.

  I rarely won these contests. Long summer days, when if we wanted to swim or picnic or sail in Martin’s boat we could do so, together. I had no sense as a child that these things might be finite, but of course the adults must have known that there could only ever be so many fishing trips or near adventures with oncoming ferries. I think my older three children are already at an age when they know that nothing lasts forever, though I would guess that Gabriella is not. I envy her that and want to preserve that innocence for her for as long as possible, as perhaps they all once did for me.

  Martin was always aware of when the tide was going to turn and of the latest moment we could scuttle back up the creek to home, always leaving time to get the sail out so that we could tack our way back.

  I was hit hard by the beam more than once. We never really learnt to sail independently. I’m not sure why. They could not have afforded lessons, but Martin could well have taught us. He described me as an ‘experienced boater’. I suppose I lacked the inclination to go beyond this. I don’t remember ever asking or wanting to do more.

  I have seen Annabelle and Maddie grow up with sea scouts and go on camps where they sail Lasers, Mirrors, Toppers and Topaz. Annabel
le says that Lasers are her favourite, but I would not know which were which if you lined them up in front of me. It is only because landlocked Warwick happens to have a river and a Sea Scouts that they can now do what I could not.

  Uncle Mike’s boats were different. Hulking fishing vessels, Wham then Janet Marie. These were working boats that formed the basis of his livelihood once and were kept long after that. Long after, we noticed a thinning out of the number of similar vessels moored in the creek. They were more powerful than October, so we would go further afield, into the middle of the Solent to the real fishing grounds, near the wartime circular forts that still stood guard. Holiday homes with helicopters now. My ideal place to live I sometimes thought. Around there you could pull up twenty mackerel in a matter of minutes, or none. It depended and you could never be sure.

  For years, Mike would take us to Cowes’ fireworks. We’d head out in the dark, boat well lit, hundreds of other vessels doing the same, Royal Yacht Britannia often in attendance, ferries hired out as spectator vessels. He would play pop music and the sky would dazzle with a kaleidoscope of colour. Golds and silvers, purples and reds, boats honking in approval as bangs filled the air.

  As I became a teenager it spoke of a togetherness that made me feel more separate, growing into and away from something at the same time, without really being able to make sense of or to explain any of it. Time can start to gnaw at you, even when still young. My father was never a confident boater and would often meet my eye with a mock grimace as we rolled in the wash from the mass of other vessels.

  Sometimes it was possible to get back up the creek after the fireworks, other times we would have to moor at the yacht club. Occasionally we were not sure how far we might get. I remember a late-night walk home in the dark once, Matt excited, Mum and Anna more worried. A cat flashing past us on the unlit path, which made everybody jump.