My phone pinged with another message.
Ben
Jenna is really nice. She’s from Chipping Norton. She lives in a barn conversion. Her dad is a farmer. We’re going out for dinner tomorrow.
Me
That’s nice. I look forward to meeting her.
Ben
Mum!
Fantastic. Who knew, maybe Ben would be moving out before too long and into rural life.
17
The following morning, I woke up after a decent night’s sleep, probably helped by the motion of the ship and the surprisingly comfortable bed. It was seven fifteen.
I put on my dressing gown and made myself a cup of tea to drink in bed as I always did. Then I pulled back the curtains to see if there was anything interesting out there.
Immediately I yelped in shock and sprang back, almost falling over the wastepaper basket. On the other side of the glass was a crew member in a blue boiler suit, with a big yellow squeegee who was washing the windows. Tactfully, he averted his gaze and pretended he hadn’t seen me and my new Donald Duck nightie. I closed the curtains again. Perhaps I would wait until he had gone. I didn’t think the world was ready to see me in all my morning glory just yet.
I peered around the curtains a few times like a nervous maiden aunt until I was sure he had gone and then opened them. The sky above was patchy with cloud and spoke of recent rain but promised a clear day ahead. Outside, my balcony was wet and glistening as the sun rose over Kvarner Bay, which was as calm as a boating lake. This in itself was very reassuring, and I was sure it was going to be a great day.
I put on my slippers and went out onto the balcony. Surprisingly close was the grey-green outline of land, folding in impressive, rocky curves towards the sea. I could see the occasional building and further along a cluster of white houses and winding roads. There were boats out there too, a massive, blue-hulled container ship, little fishing smacks, another boat which was about the same size as ours but heading in the opposite direction. Ships that pass in the day.
Our boat was chugging along at a sedate pace, leaving hardly any wake behind us. It seemed we were not in any rush.
I decided not to risk another shower after the disappointment of yesterday and quickly got ready. After all, there was breakfast out there in the dining room, and I was hungry. Perhaps it was the sea air.
When I got there I saw I was one of the first to arrive. Then I saw Jack Fisher who was sitting on his own, eating a croissant and drinking coffee. I hesitated for a moment, dithering about returning to my cabin and messing about for another half an hour. But the scent of the coffee and the sight of the well-stocked buffet table pulled me in.
‘Ah, good morning,’ he said, turning in his chair. ‘The coffee is very good.’
‘I could do with some,’ I said.
I chose a selection of breakfast pastries and a little pot of apricot jam which had always been one of my favourites and yet was one I seldom thought to buy. Which was odd. Why not? And then I remembered the years when Fred had sneered at it, saying it didn’t taste of anything. Newly decisive, I took a second little pot and went to pour coffee.
I would buy some when I got home, some of the expensive sort with the gingham lids, and I would also buy peanut butter and make curry that actually tasted of something, and if I wanted to eat toast in bed then I would.
Then of course was the decision about where to sit. It would seem odd if I didn’t join Jack, wouldn’t it. But then he might be one of those men who disliked company at breakfast. I hesitated.
‘Come and sit with me,’ he said cheerfully, pulling out a chair for me. ‘We can watch as the captain docks our ship. I always think that’s a clever thing to watch. All the business of getting lined up, not bumping into the quayside. Throwing the ropes out to people.’
‘I have enough trouble getting my car into my garage,’ I said, ‘but then it is full of junk.’
‘Your car or the garage?’
‘Both.’
He grinned and pulled apart a second croissant. ‘Mine too. I should hire a skip and have a good clear out, but somehow I never get around to it.’
‘I used to have a superstition that if I threw away my schoolbooks I would forget all the things in them I had learned,’ I said, ‘so for years I hung on to them, even my exercise books from school. But then after the divorce and I had to move, I realised I probably had no use for my Latin books or my O level test papers, so I threw them all out.’
‘And do you feel there is a great void in your knowledge as a result?’
‘I’ll never be able to readCivis Romanusagain,’ I said, ‘but then I wasn’t very good at it the first time around.’
