Eden on the RailsChapter 22
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The day after Davie and Lydia's visit, a thick letter arrived for Amy. She was offered a place at Ipswich College to take 'A' levels in English, English Lit, Mathematics, and Biology, and enclosed a thick reading list and student information for her induction day in September. She went off to see what Felixstowe library could offer in terms of books on the list, while I went to the Ferry boatyard to pay my dues for parking (and, later, launching) the Wanderer. Calling at the café for coffee, I got almost the 'third degree' from Joan behind the counter; 'Who was the attractive young woman I had brought into the café the other day?' I replied that she was a lodger, who was going to be a student at Ipswich College next academic year. She raised her eyebrows with an expression that said clearly 'pull the other one, it's got bells on' but I just smiled.
"I've got to say," Joan said, "that you're looking a lot better than you had been."
"I think I'm getting back on track," I said. "I'm going to be doing a little sailing soon, too." I took my coffee and cake, and went to sit by the window.
Amy was a little low when she got home; she'd only found one set-book in the library, and had requested a couple more. She cheered up when I told her we'd have a look on the internet to see if we could find some discounted, and pointed out I was pretty sure a couple of the Literature set books were already on my shelves. She was a little mortified that she hadn't thought to ask, but then, I hadn't thought to say.
Once more, we spent the evening close together on the sofa, listening to music. I thought it'd be interesting to delve into some of the contemporary crossover artists, so I found CDs of Catrin Finch, Katherine Jenkins and Aled Jones.
There's an old joke, that the definition of an English summer is 'three fine days and a thunderstorm', and there's a grain of truth in it. The next day was a Saturday, but the sky was heavily overcast, and the forecast poor. Sure enough, by lunchtime we had a full-blown thunderstorm, including some hail. Amy just shrugged, and buried her nose in 'Pride and Prejudice'. The mail arrived just before lunch, and my current copy of the Handbook of Sailing was there; thank you, Amazon. I decided a little revision was in order, and after lunch sat with the Handbook and a couple of bottles of Marston's Pedigree. That was, perhaps, not the best of ideas, as my alcohol tolerance is not very high, and by mid afternoon I wasn't really absorbing any meaningful information.
Sunday was not much better, though it wasn't actually pouring. I'm by no means a regular church-goer, but the Vicar had been so good with Lucy's funeral, I'd taken to going from time to time, maybe once a month. When I said I was going to church, Amy looked conflicted. I told her she was welcome to stay home; she had the books, the T/V and the computer, but she decided to come with me. The Parish Church, Ss. Peter and Paul, isn't happy-clappy, but neither is it staid. The service was fairly conventional, but the Vicar preached on the passage in John about the woman taken in adultery. Afterwards, Amy was very quiet and thoughtful. As we neared home, she said;
"I thought religious people were all supposed to be pure and stuff like that, I don't know ... like my mother, I suppose. But what he seemed to be saying is 'no-body's perfect, and we have to forgive each other.' And if we don't, we're condemned ourselves."
"That's about right," I said, "religious people are often accused of hypocrisy, sometimes rightly, because it's not really possible to live up to the expectations of the religious laws. But there's not much point in accusing people who really are hypocrites, because they're so sure of themselves, it just washes over them or they get angry and defensive and just dismiss anything you say."
"But you accepted me, and helped me. You didn't even say 'go and sin no more'!"
"As a sinner myself," I laughed, "I've got no right to pass judgement on anyone else. I'm sorry to say I'm very tempted in the case of your mother, though."
She looked at me oddly, then, but we were nearly home, and it was time to think about food, and the rest of the day.
In the afternoon, having checked the forecast (and looked out of the window and tapped the barometer), tomorrow was looking better. I cobbled together a mock-up of an extended tiller, found a suitable piece of old rope, and rehearsed Amy in the movements and timing of tacking and gybing using kitchen chairs. She was a quick study.
In the evening, we once more immersed ourselves in music. However uneasy I was with the intimacy I was enjoying with Amy, I couldn't refuse it.
Monday began grey and gloomy, but there was no rain and a steady force three breeze from the south-west. We were at the Ferry a little after nine am and we had the Wanderer rigged and our food and equipment stowed before ten. The slipway from the boatyard is into a fairly quiet patch, but a little way out in the river the current runs at full speed. It was half flood, meaning that the tide was rising and was half-way to high tide, so the current was flowing at its maximum speed up river. The current in the Deben flows at up to almost five knots, as fast or faster than a small dinghy can sail, and having launched, the sailor has to negotiate an obstacle course of dozens of moored boats in every size and sort.
"Amy," I explained, "it's going to be a bit hectic at first. As I told you, as crew it's your responsibility to get the centre-board up or down, trim the jib, and balance the boat. The balance bit is fairly natural, you just move to the side of the boat which is highest. When I push off, you need to get the centre-board down as soon as there's enough depth for it, then hold the job-sheet, pulling it in until the sail is pulling."
She looked nervous, but determined. I pushed the boat away from the slipway, the mainsail filled and I hopped in and pulled the rudder into its working position. Amy got the centre-board down promptly and sheeted in the jib, and we were moving, crabbing through the water, fighting the current. I had to dodge a couple of boats, but then we were in the fairway.
"Gybe-oh!" I called, sheeted in and put the tiller across. From nervousness, Amy was a little quick, and the boat tipped alarmingly before the sail slammed across; but then we were away with the wind on the port quarter, moving quickly over the ground. I suppose it's a little like extreme snow-boarding, or white-water canoeing. Once you're committed, you have to keep going and not make a mistake ... It's only for a few minutes, though before the fairway widens out and the current slackens. Once things had calmed down, I said to Amy;
"We can relax a bit now"
She grinned at me. "I was a bit nervous, but it was fun."
"You did your job pretty well," I said, "though you need to judge your movements to match what the boat is doing. Things may be happening quickly, but you mustn't rush. Now, come aft and take the tiller."
We swapped places.
"Keep well clear of the banks," I said. "There's shallow water a long way out."
We were curving round into the next reach, and the wind was on our beam, the easiest and fastest point of sailing. When we were about halfway along, I suggested,
"Try a tack now, and head back the way we've come."
"Why? I was enjoying this!"
"I know. We're not going home, but you're a learner driver, and I want to see you tacking, please."
She nodded, said "ready about?" then, "lee-oh." She pushed the tiller across, we came up into the wind, I released the jib sheet and we were round and I was sheeting in again.
"Watch your heading," I warned and she straightened up. We were now moving much slower over the ground, though still moving through the water at the same speed.
"Do you see the problem with the current?" I asked, "We probably couldn't make it back to the launch point." She nodded, I added, "OK, let's see you tack again. Move smoothly and give the boat time to respond."
Having done that a couple more times, the current had carried us to the bend.
"Keep over to the left. We're probably OK without a gybe, but we'll see in a minute."
She seemed to be managing well, so I left her at the tiller, though she was a bit nervous as we worked our way between the moored boats at Ramsholt, then we were reaching again to Prettyman's Point.
"We'll need to gybe in a moment," I said, "how do you feel about that? Do you want me to take over?"
"Yes, take over, please, I'm getting tired."
We swapped over; we rounded the point, came gradually onto a run, then gybed to get the wind on our starboard side. It was a minute or so before we were up to the beach at 'the Rocks', I turned in and we grounded on the course sand. It's a pleasant, sheltered spot, with a low cliff and trees behind and about fifty yards of very coarse sand. We got the sails down and pulled the boat well up, stamping the anchor into the ground above the high-water mark. We unloaded our food, and a picnic blanket, and I removed my wet-boots, lifejacket and waterproofs, before deciding it was warm enough to dispense with my pullover, too, dumping my clothes in the boat out of the way.
We'd been up pretty early, and the fresh air and exercise meant we were both hungry, so I boiled up some water on a little camp-stove for tea and we had our lunch.
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