by Julie Cohen
‘This is all a bit . . . quick, isn’t it?’
‘Looking at you makes me feel happier than I’ve been in years, maybe ever. I’ve been thinking about it all night and it’s been driving me crazy. You feel it too, don’t you? Just a little bit?’
‘I . . .’ She whispered it. ‘Yes.’
He seized her other hand. ‘Then come with me. Just for a day – you can get a train back tomorrow. I just want to spend more time with you, another twenty-four hours. We have to see if this means anything.’
‘Even if it does mean anything, you’re still leaving.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. It’s crazy. It’s ridiculous.’
‘It can’t be real,’ she said. ‘Things like this don’t happen. I’m attracted to you, that’s all.’
‘Then be attracted to me enough to come to Lowestoft with me. It’s one day out of your life, Emily.’
‘I have a tutorial at ten. And . . .’ There was something else, but she couldn’t remember it with Robbie kneeling beside her bed, holding both her hands and looking entreatingly at her.
‘You’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It’ll be as if none of this ever happened.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing I do.’
‘All the more reason to do it, I would have thought.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘We won’t be young forever, Emily Greaves. And we only have one day. Let’s make the most of it.’
She wavered.
Looking at you makes me feel happier than I’ve been in years, maybe ever.
He might be lying. But he didn’t look as if he were.
‘I’ll have to find someone to give in my essay for me,’ she said. ‘And I’ll need to leave a note for my tutor.’
His smile made her heart turn over.
‘Oh, you beauty,’ he said, and kissed her.
‘You’ll have to leave the same way you got in,’ she said, pushing him gently away from her. ‘I’ll be dressed in ten minutes. Meet me by the front.’
She scurried out to the bathroom, giving a false, bright smile to her neighbour Adrienne whom she met coming out, and by the time she came back the window was open and Robbie and his bag were gone. The blanket had been folded neatly on the bottom of her bed.
After she dressed she scribbled a note to Dr Madison and was reaching for another piece of paper to write a note to Christopher, to drop in his pigeonhole on her way to the station along with her essay, when she stopped.
Christopher. She’d completely forgotten.
The blood rushed to her face as she recalled how shy he’d been, how difficult it had been for him to ask her for a date. The date that was supposed to be tonight. Being with Robbie had driven it utterly out of her mind.
She should stay. She had promised Christopher.
If she could feel this strongly attracted to a man after less than a day – ten thousand times more strongly attracted than she was to Christopher, after having known him for two years – wasn’t that a sign that it wasn’t right to date Christopher?
I’m sorry, she scribbled on the paper, before she could let herself think about it too much. I’ve had to go away for the day. I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll explain it then. Can you please give in my essay to Dr M? So sorry, Christopher.
She began to write Love but thought better of it and just signed it Em.
She shoved some clothes and her toothbrush into an overnight case, gave her hair a brush and hurried down her staircase, already rehearsing her excuse to the porter about an emergency at home.
Emily stared out the train window, chewing on a fingernail. She checked her watch: two minutes till the train left, and there was no sign of Robbie since he’d left her on the platform, asking her to find them a couple of seats.
What was she doing? She didn’t know this man. He could be anyone. He could be lying to her about the boat. He could be lying to her about everything. He could have some sort of nefarious plan to lure her somewhere. He could have a wife, children, be a murderer. He could have changed his mind and decided he didn’t want to spend his last day with her after all.
She heard the guard’s whistle and the doors slamming up and down the train. He wasn’t coming, and she didn’t have a ticket. Emily stood up to leave and through the window she saw Robbie running along the platform outside, carrying a paper parcel.
He burst on to the train, breathing hard, and smiled widely when he saw her. ‘Provisions,’ he said, holding up the bundle.
He’d bought sweets, crisps, biscuits and bottles of Coca-Cola which he opened using the penknife from his pocket. They spread everything out on the table in front of them and Emily ate what was probably the unhealthiest breakfast of her life and she couldn’t stop smiling.
Somewhere past Thetford, the guard came into the end of their compartment. ‘Tickets to Norwich,’ he announced, and began to make his way down towards them.
Robbie swept up their picnic, shoved it under his seat, and seized her hand. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he whispered to her, and pulled her out of her seat and up the aisle away from the conductor.
‘Go where?’
‘To the bathroom.’ He reached the loo at the end of the carriage and tugged her into it, shutting the door behind them.
It was rather unpleasant smelling and so tiny that Emily was pressed right up against Robbie, her stomach against his hip and her face close to his. The train lurched over points, and he wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her steady. He was very warm and very solid.
‘What on earth are we doing?’ she asked.
He put his finger on her lips and whispered. ‘Quiet. If we’re caught without tickets we’ll be thrown off the train.’
‘You didn’t buy tickets? I thought that was what you were doing while I found the seats.’
He shrugged. ‘I was too busy getting our picnic.’
‘So—’
He put his palm over her mouth. ‘Shh. The conductor will be walking by any minute now.’
Emily kept quiet, her eyes wide, looking up at Robbie. He seemed to think this was an enormous joke. He held her easily and close and the motion of the train made her body vibrate against his, rubbing her even warmer. She felt herself beginning to sweat. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of his skin. If she stuck her tongue out and touched his palm, she would taste salt.
Long moments later, he removed his hand from her mouth and reached behind her to unlock the door. ‘I’ll follow you in a minute,’ he murmured, pushing her out and closing the door again.
She was more than a little unsteady walking back to their seats.
He joined her, sliding into the seat next to hers, whistling a snatch of the music they’d listened to the night before.
‘Why didn’t you get tickets?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘I thought there were better things to spend money on.’
‘Robbie, you have to buy tickets if you’re going to ride a train.’
‘Why?’
The question was so ridiculous she sputtered. ‘Because – because that’s what you do. I could have given you the money if you’d told me.’
‘I had enough money. I just like to keep it for important things.’ He reached under the seat and retrieved the parcel. ‘We can split the last Coke.’
‘Did you pay for that?’
‘Of course.’
‘The snacks for the train journey were more important in your mind than the actual train journey?’
He popped open the bottle. A small wisp of fizz appeared at its mouth. ‘I don’t like having to pay for travel; travel should be free. We should all be able to go wherever we want to. That’s the point of being alive.’
‘But what about the guards who have to make a living? And the drivers? And the signalmen, and the people who build the trains and the track and—’
‘Emily Greaves, you’re going to give me a conscience if you keep on like that.’
He tried to kiss her, but she pulled back. ‘We’re buying tickets in Norwich for the rest of the journey.’
‘I love it when you get all strict.’
‘Robbie, I mean it.’
‘All right, all right. Point taken. You’re right, I’m wrong. Can you forgive me?’
He widened his eyes in such a puppy-dog penitent expression that she couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But that last Coke is mine.’
And she took it.
They emerged from the station in Lowestoft to a deserted street in strangely muted light. Grey clouds rolled between the buildings; Emily instinctively breathed in but smelled nothing, and it still took a moment or two for her to realise that it was fog, not smoke.
‘It’ll burn off within a couple of hours,’ said Robbie, taking her hand.
‘And I’m supposed to believe your weather predictions now?’ But she clung to his hand; the town felt empty, as if they were the only two people in it. Their footsteps were muted and Emily felt a film of damp settling on her face, her clothes, her hair; her eyelashes felt heavy and moist. ‘It’s like being inside a cloud,’ she said.
‘I should really say something about you being an angel at this point, but I’m scared you’re getting tired of my lines.’
‘They’re very well practised.’
‘Well, then you won’t be surprised when I say I’d like to introduce you to a lady that I’ve been spending a lot of time with.’
She shot him a look but he was smiling. He’d been so sure of himself, from the moment she’d met him. She wasn’t usually attracted to arrogance; quite the opposite. And the thing about his lines was that even though she knew they couldn’t be, they sounded totally sincere.
The buildings opened out to an esplanade, presumably fronting the sea, but all Emily could see was a wall of grey, with fog billowing in. She shivered and Robbie took off his jacket and put it over her shoulders.
He led her down a set of steps to a wooden walkway. The scent of the sea was stronger here: she could see greyish-green water lapping at the walkway, and sense large ghostly shapes around them. Every now and then, the splash of a wave or the clink of metal against metal.
‘She’s here,’ he said, and as he said it the boat loomed out of the fog, suddenly solid and real.
It had a red hull, two masts; it was wide and long with a spotlessly clean deck and hundreds of incomprehensible ropes everywhere. Robbie put his hand on the side of it, as if he were fond. ‘Emily Greaves, meet Nora Mae,’ he said. ‘This is the lady I was telling you about.’
‘The boat?’
‘She’s a sixty-foot ketch, made in Annapolis, Maryland about six years ago. I’ve known her all her life.’ He patted the hull again. ‘I put this paint on myself.’
‘You built this boat?’
‘Parts of her. We’re very fond of each other.’
She tried to imagine building something as big and intricate as a boat by hand, and couldn’t. ‘Do you own it?’
‘Her,’ corrected Robbie. ‘No, she’s owned by a oil magnate from Texas called Bud Walker. Before that, she was owned by a New York banker called Chad Lund.’
‘But you sail her? This Texas owner hires you to sail his boat for him?’
‘He pays me to crew sometimes, yes. When he’s on the Chesapeake, which is about four weekends a summer. Bud can sail, just about, but he likes to have yacht parties more than he likes to do any of the actual work on board. I look after her when he’s not around, and do the overwintering work on her, and this year he wants to spend the summer in Italy, so I’m sailing her to the Med.’
‘By yourself?’
‘We’re a crew of three. Come and meet them.’ He led her to the back of the boat, where the hull dipped enough so that he could climb on. He put down his hand to help her up.
It felt somehow different from being on land. The water was calm in the marina, and the movement of the craft was very subtle, but the boat felt alive.
‘I’ve never been on a boat before.’
‘You were on a punt two days ago.’
‘I mean a real boat, a big boat.’ She peered upwards at the masts, which were tall enough to disappear in the fog. An undetectable breeze made the ropes flap slightly. ‘What do you even do with all of these ropes? There are so many of them.’
‘Not so many, when you know what they’re for.’
‘I can’t imagine knowing.’
‘Don’t you know all the names of all the veins in a human body? It’s easier than that.’
‘Not to me.’ Gazing up at the ropes, she felt for the first time exactly how much of a stranger Robbie was. Not just his past, or his motivations: there was this whole world of knowledge and competence inside his head – knowledge about a thing that she’d never even given any thought to.
A head popped up through the door leading below deck. ‘Thought I heard you up here, Bob. I was expecting you last night.’
The man wore a blue baseball cap with a red B on it and a dirty grey shirt. He was older than Robbie, his face was weather-beaten and sunburned. His accent was similar to Robbie’s, but with softer r’s, flatter vowels, a slower way of speaking. He regarded Emily with distinct surprise.
‘Something happened. Emily, this is Dennis, my first mate.’
‘You’re the first mate. I’ve been the captain since you didn’t come back last night.’
‘Dennis, this is Emily.’
He stretched his hand up for her to shake. His skin was rough and calloused, like tree bark. ‘You any good at cooking, Emily?’
‘Don’t be a chauvinist,’ said Robbie. ‘She’s going to be a doctor.’
‘I can also cook,’ said Emily.
‘If you’re on board, you have to be useful. I have a dozen eggs to use up before Art gets back with the supplies and Bob’s omelettes are like rubber.’ Dennis went back down below.
‘You don’t have to cook,’ Robbie told her.
‘I don’t mind. And I’m hungry. We haven’t had anything proper to eat since yesterday.’ She followed Dennis down the hatch. The stairs were more like a ladder; she had to hold on tight to the handholds not to slip. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like at sea, with the boat rolling all over the place.
The ladder led down into the kitchen area, which had cabinets, a cooker, a sink. Beyond it there was a seating area, with benches and a table, lamps, a bookshelf. All of it gleamed with polished teak and brass; the seats were upholstered in leather. Between the portholes, or whatever the windows were called, there were actual oil paintings of horses on the walls. Compared to her Spartan room in college it was a mansion. ‘Wow,’ she said.
‘Bud had the whole thing refitted when he bought it,’ Robbie told her, swinging down the ladder with ease. ‘It’s a nice home for a few months. Nicer than my actual home. Here, I’ll show you around.’
He put his arm around her waist and gave her a tour of the boat: the radio, sonar and charts hidden in a teak cabinet set into the wall; the way the dining table pulled out to seat at least ten; the compact bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower; the cabins, with beds neatly made and a sink in each room. There was no clutter anywhere. You would hardly know that three men had lived on this boat for weeks.
‘Which one is your room?’ she asked him.
‘This one. The aft cabin.’
She went further into it, looking for a sign of Robbie, something to tell her more about him. He’d slept in this bed while he sailed across the entire Atlantic ocean; he must have dreamed in it.
There were several paperbacks on the shelf beside the bed: three thick mystery novels, a well-thumbed guide to Italy. A photograph had been Sellotaped to the lampshade. It was battered, like something precious th
at had been carried around in a pocket. Emily lifted up a corner of it so she could see it better. It was a black-and-white snap of a pretty dark-haired woman and Robbie; he had his arms around her and was gazing at her with open adoration.
His expression was exactly the same as it had been when he’d gazed at her this morning, when she’d awoken near to him.
She pulled her hand away as if she’d been burnt. She’d been right; Robbie was a charmer who’d been feeding her lines.
‘Does your girlfriend back home know what you’re up to whilst you’re away?’ she asked, not bothering to keep the crossness out of her voice.
‘My girlfriend?’
‘Forgot about her already, despite the picture you keep by your bed?’
‘I haven’t – oh, that.’ He sounded relieved as he joined her by the bedside. ‘That’s my mom and dad. Before he volunteered as a pilot and went off to Europe to fight.’
She lifted it again, unsticking the Sellotape so she could hold it closer to her face. Though the expression was the same, there were a few subtle differences between the man in the photo and the man who stood beside her. The man in the photo had a cleft in his chin; his face was rounder, his hair Brylcreemed back. Now that she looked, she saw the wedding ring.
‘Oh,’ she said, relieved. ‘You – you look a great deal like him.’
‘I told you: I’m a chip off the old block,’ he said, though he sounded not entirely pleased about it. ‘I’m even a Robert Junior.’
She remembered what he’d said about his father being a drunk. ‘Your parents look happy in this photograph.’
‘I suppose they were, once.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘Just me. I was born before he went to Europe, and when he came back, he was different. That’s what Mom says, anyway.’ He took the photograph from her and stuck it back on the lampshade. ‘I’m not even sure why I keep it.’
‘Because they look happy?’
‘Yeah. I sort of think – maybe this is crazy – that one moment of pure happiness like that, might make everything else worth it.’
