River of Destiny

‘Bit like an ethic.’ He turned to face her. ‘Have you come for a reason or are you just here to annoy me?’

She shrugged. ‘Bored.’

‘Is your mother not taking you shopping?’

‘There’s no decent shops.’

‘Ah. I see the problem.’ He didn’t bother to ask what decent shops consisted of in her opinion.

‘And your brothers won’t play with you?’

She stared at him. ‘Play?’ She seemed shocked at the word.

‘I know. I am sorry. It’s not a concept you are acquainted with. What are they doing? Should I be barring the windows and calling the police?’

She giggled. ‘Probly.’

He frowned. ‘Jade, do me a favour, love. Tell those vile pigs who are your siblings to keep away from the new people in The Old Barn. OK? They are nice people and we don’t want them being chased away like the last lot.’

She grinned. ‘That was good. They was real scared!’

‘Jade!’

‘I know.’ She sat down on the couch and took a swig from her can. ‘This is shabby. My mum thinks you must be very poor.’ She was fingering the torn throw which covered the worst holes and frayed edges in the upholstery.

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Your mum is a wise woman. But fortunately I don’t mind being either poor or shabby.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got a boat, though. Can I come out on her?’

‘Have you learned to swim?’

She shook her head.

‘Then you know what the answer is.’

‘My dad says sailors never learned to swim ’cos if the boat sank, then they drowned quickly and there wasn’t time to get eaten by sharks.’

Leo nodded, trying to hide a smile. ‘Sounds good logic to me. OK, if I go out I will take you, but only if one of your parents signs something to say I have their permission to drown their child. And I want no brothers.’

‘Nor do I.’ She beamed at him. ‘Can we go today?’

‘No. The wind is going to get too strong.’

‘They’ve gone.’ She nodded vaguely behind her. Leo took her to mean Zoë and Ken.

‘I know. But I think they are experienced sailors. You are not.’ He folded his arms. ‘Right; this visit is concluded. Can you go home, please, Jade. I am busy.’

‘OK.’ She stood up, seemingly happy with the cursory dismissal. ‘Can we go tomorrow then?’

‘We’ll see! Out!’ He jerked his thumb towards the door.

He watched her as she wandered back through his garden, through the gate, leaving it wide open, and up the grass towards The Summer Barn. He couldn’t see it from here, but he could imagine the scene. From peaceful emptiness it would have changed to noisy chaos. The huge people carrier would be parked as closely as possible to the front door, which would be open. Noise, lurchers and general mess would have spread exponentially across the front garden and into the communal grounds, and his peace would be shattered for the next however many days they stayed. He gave a wry grin. He liked Jade, and her parents were decent enough, if congenitally noisy and untidy, but her brothers were the pits! He gave a deep sigh. The first thing he had to do was go out and close his gate against those damn dogs.

Rosemary was standing in the field below the barns, a carefully folded Ordnance Survey map in her hand, turning it round first one way then the other, her eyes narrowed against the wind. It was cold and her hands were turning blue but she had forgotten her gloves. She looked round again, carefully noting the lie of the land. There was no footpath marked, but there had been one on the old map she was looking at this morning in the library. The field lay diagonally to the river; almost at its centre there was a roughly circular area of scrub, which was fenced off from the rest of the field with rusting barbed wire. On the map the footpath would have gone through the middle of this patch, followed on down the slight hill and debouched onto the lane below the hedge. When you thought about it, it was the logical place for a path to go, otherwise it was necessary to veer left up quite a steep slope towards the gate in the top corner of the field and then walk down the far side of the hedge to join the lane several hundred yards further on. She reached into her pocket for her notebook and folded it open, fighting the increasing wind as the pages flapped wildly for a moment until she smoothed them flat. She drew a quick sketch and began carefully to pace the line of a possible path down towards the scrub. When she reached the barbed wire she paused, staring into the undergrowth. Why had it been fenced off? Squinting, she tried to see if there was a pond or feed bins or maybe a sign that there were pheasant-rearing cages in there. That was always reckoned to be a good enough reason for farmers to close off access. There was nothing that she could see, just a substantial mound of earth, brambles, nettles and several small skimpy trees. She began to circle the wire, sure there would be some means of access on the far side. There wasn’t. After getting badly scratched by brambles and mauled by the wire she gave up and stood, frustrated, staring down towards the river. The wind was rising. She could hear it roaring through the trees and, out of sight, on the moorings she could hear the clap of metal halyards against a metal mast. Briefly she wondered if Zoë and Ken had come back yet. She had seen them walking across the grass early this morning laden with a sail bag and basket, and each with a serviceable-looking day sack on their back.

Turning with her back to the water, she stared up the line of the missing path and saw through her whipping hair that someone was approaching her down the field. It was the farmer, Bill Turtill. She had always found him polite and, if not overfriendly, at least approachable, and she walked towards him with a smile. ‘Bill, how are you?’

‘All right, Mrs Formby. And yourself?’

‘I am well, thank you. Cold in this wind.’ She gave a theatrical shiver to illustrate the point.

‘I’ll be ploughing this field in the next week or two,’ he said after a moment. ‘You would find it easier walking if you stayed on the footpaths.’

‘Oh, I know.’ Her smile froze on her lips. ‘I was just wondering, Bill, why the footpath doesn’t come straight down across the field any more. You do know that it used to come across here?’

He shook his head. ‘The footpath follows the hedge up to the lane.’

‘It does now, yes. But originally it came directly across the field.’

‘I don’t think so. Not in my time or my father’s. It is clearly way-marked, Mrs Formby, and on all the maps, as I’m sure you’ve seen.’ He looked pointedly at her Ordnance Survey map.

She sighed. There was always trouble when anyone suggested to these yokels that a right of way needed to be reinstated. Still, there was no point in putting his back up prematurely. She smiled again. ‘I’m sure you’re right, it just seems strange when it is such an obvious route. Well, never mind. Once you have ploughed the field it will be impassable anyway.’ She sighed as she shoved the map into the pocket of her jacket and tightened her scarf. ‘It was nice to see you, Bill. Do give my love to Penny.’

She set off up the field with the wind behind her, conscious of his eyes on her back as she walked, determined not to hurry or divert from her route. It took her once more up to the wired-off area and once more she paused to gaze into the undergrowth. After a moment she walked on, skirting it as before. Why had he left that area of scrub in the field? It was a complete waste of space, not something the average man of the soil, who round here would plough up every extra centimetre if given the chance, would tolerate for a moment, in her experience. The mound of earth in the centre could easily be bulldozed. She huddled more deeply into her jacket. There were several things to find out before she took her findings to Arthur, who chaired the local walking group’s committee. She considered talking to Leo. He had taken an interest in local history since he had arrived, but then again he had told her that she and her walking group were a load of interfering bored trouble-makers. She hadn’t spoken to him since, and he had never apologised; so not the man to turn to for information. She had to find someone else to ask. But research was what she was good at and confronting Bill Turtill would, she suddenly decided, be an enjoyable experience. It might make him a bit less cocky. She shivered, for real this time, imagining his eyes, still cold and antagonistic, watching her as she made her way across his field.

4 (#ulink_467f1b6d-afc7-5ec1-84f7-c7aaa8753320)

‘Oh my God, we’ve hit something!’ Zoë heard her voice screaming above the roar of the waves and the wind.

‘Don’t panic.’ Ken was fighting the tiller with all his strength. ‘We touched the shingle bank for a moment, that’s all.’ His words were carried away on the wind. ‘Come on, you stupid woman, use some strength. If we tear the bottom out of the boat, it will be your fault! Hold on!’

Desperately Zoë hung on to the slippery rope in her hand, aware of the tightly reefed sail, the proximity of the beach as they turned into the river, feeling the enormous strength of the wind, fighting it, terrified that at any moment she would lose her grip. Ken was swearing at the helm. She couldn’t hear the words, but as she glanced across at him she saw the gleeful exhilaration in his face, the bulging muscles in his neck and arms. He was putting every ounce of strength he had into the battle, and he was enjoying it.

Then suddenly the boat came round a few degrees and the power of the sail slackened. ‘Yes!’ Ken let out an exultant yell. ‘That’s it. We’re in. We’ve done it, we’ve crossed the bar. That’s fine. Let the sheet out a bit. There, what did I tell you?’ With uncanny suddenness the water calmed and the boat righted herself, heading meekly into the river mouth. ‘Phew!’ He smiled again and she heard a note of relief in his voice in spite of his glee. ‘I was a bit worried there. I don’t know where that squall came from. I’m sure they forecast good weather for today.’

‘Well, they were wrong.’ Zoë had been holding the wet main sheet so hard her knuckles were locked, her hands white, the skin of her fingers wrinkled. There had been no time to put on gloves. The cockpit was awash with water and she was soaked to the skin, aware of people standing on the seawall watching them as they passed the shingle banks at Bawdsey and threaded their way between the moorings at Felixstowe Ferry and the quiet wooded stretch of shore on the far side.

‘That’s something like it!’ Ken went on, his voice gaining in confidence again with every second. ‘Exciting. Listen

to those waves crashing over the shingle. I timed it a bit early, that’s all. We should have waited, but with the storm coming …’ His voice trailed away as he saw Zoë’s face. ‘Were you scared? There was no need. I was in control.’

‘Yes, I bloody was scared!’ she said with some force. ‘I was terrified. God, I hate this boat!’

‘My fault. I was an idiot,’ he conceded unexpectedly. He screwed up his eyes against the glare, passing the red marker buoy and heading up the channel. ‘You don’t really hate it. You know you don’t. I always forget you’re not as experienced as I am. But you are very good. You are learning.’ He grinned again.

It was dark before, under power and with the sails tightly furled, they nosed up to their mooring and made fast to the buoy. Zoë was still shaking with cold as she gathered their stuff together. The wind was still strong, the trees thrashing, the water choppy as Ken released the dinghy and pulled it alongside.

‘Can you find the torch?’ He was exhausted too, she could hear it in his voice as he lowered the first of their bags over the side. She passed the empty food basket across to him, then suddenly she froze. Over the noise of wind and water she could hear the sound of oars. ‘Ken!’ Not again. Please, let it not happen again.