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Overview
Jess Penhaligon is on her way to Devon to receive an award for her botanical painting. Hosting her will be Kate, who gladly welcomes her into her home. Jess's own family fell apart several years ago, so she is grateful for Kate's friendliness —and her close unit of extended family and friends, who embrace Jess just as warmly.
As this group begins reminiscing on their pasts and sharing their stories with Jess, it becomes apparent that her family history may be linked with theirs. Long-buried secrets from past generations begin to be uncovered —but at what cost have they been kept hidden?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250046345 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 08/12/2014 |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Sales rank: | 515,951 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.10(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
PROLOGUE
Summer
Journeys: all her life she’s loved journeys. She climbs onto
the train, squeezes her way past other travellers, checking
her ticket against the labels on the seats, and swings her
small case onto the luggage rack. The middle-aged couple
in the opposite seats smile at her as she slides in next to the
window, and she smiles back but hopes they won’t want to
talk to her – not just yet. First she needs to settle into the
feel of the journey, waiting for the sudden jolt as the train
starts to move, experiencing the sensation that the station,
the whole of the city, is slipping away behind her.
As Jess looks out at the people on the platform she
remembers riding in the back of the car as a small child, in
her little seat, heading out to the seaside and, years later,
when she was fetched from boarding school for an exeat
or the holidays, being allowed to sit beside the driver –
usually Mum, because Daddy was away with his regiment.
That childish sense of excitement at the prospect of
travelling is just as fresh today.
Outside the window a girl in her early teens is saying
goodbye to her parents: her small sweet face shows a
mixture of excitement and vulnerability. She is pretending
a bravado she does not quite feel: yes, she tells them, she
has her ticket; yes, she has her mobile. She displays them
again with an exaggerated show of patient resignation that
does not for a moment deceive her parents. Her father
leans to hug her and Jess sees his expression of love and
anxiety, and she is suddenly filled with a familiar sense of
desolation.
It is eight years since her own father was killed on
deployment in Bosnia but the loss is just as great: she
still misses that particular kind of loving anxiety that her
lucky friends take for granted. She misses his humour, his
directness, the deep-down certainty that he was on her
side.
‘Your mum is such a strong woman,’ people tell her. ‘So
brave.’ And yes, Mum is both strong and brave but, when
she married her diplomat lover a year later and moved
to Brussels, Jess knew that the first part of her own life
was finished: childhood was over. Then started the years
of catching the Eurostar to Brussels; of spending holidays
at the smart f lat near the EU buildings which, even now,
doesn’t feel remotely like home. Her mother is involved
in entertaining, international politics, new friends; it’s a
world away from the army and married quarters. Slowly
Jess has learned that she must forge her own way. She
worked hard at school to get a place at Bristol University
to study botany, made new friends; but she missed the
underpinning security of her father’s love, of a sense of
support, of family.
Now that she is older she realizes that part of the joy
of travelling these days is because journeys allow her to
postpone decisions and free her from anxiety about the
future. Just for this time she can put life on hold and exist
wholly in the moment.
At last the train is pulling out of Temple Meads, gathering
speed, and Jess holds her breath; her happy anticipation
returns. She feels as if she is embarking on her most
important journey so far: leaving university, heading for
London and an unrevealed future.
The couple sitting opposite are already unpacking
food – cartons and packages and Tupperware boxes – as
if they fear they might die of starvation between Bristol
and London. Now that she looks at them more closely she
sees a resemblance between them: the pouched cheeks
and round, solid bodies remind her of Tweedledee and
Tweedledum. They spread the feast out on the table between
them and the woman looks questioningly at Jess as
if she is considering offering her sustenance.
Jess feels much too excited to be hungry. She wants to
say: ‘I’ve won an award. A really important one. The David
Porteous’ Botanical Painting Award for Young Artists. I’m
going to London to collect it. Isn’t it amazing?’
But she doesn’t say it lest they think she’s boasting –
or a bit mad. Instead she stares out of the window and
wonders how well she’s done in her finals and what kind
of degree she might get. The Award – she can’t control a
little bounce in her seat at the thought of it – comes with
a cheque for ten thousand pounds.
Everyone – even her mother and stepfather – is really
impressed with this. She regards it as a breathing space, a
chance to see whether she might now pursue a career as
an artist rather than her former plan to teach. Her stepfather,
however, is still of the opinion that she should get
straight on with her teacher training. ‘You can paint in
your spare time,’ he tells her, as if her painting is just a
hobby, something she can do on the side. When she tries
to explain her passion for it he reminds her how Anthony
Trollope wrote all his books after a hard day’s work at the
Post Office. Her stepfather is prosy and didactic, and she
wants to scream at him. Her mother always looks anxious
but rather stern at these times of confrontation, which
happen more frequently since Jess left school, and Jess
knows that she will not be on her side.
‘I think you should listen to him, Jess,’ she says, irritated
by the possibility of argument and the disruption of carefully
managed peace in this very controlled environment.
‘He hasn’t got where he is today . . .’
And Jess listens politely to him – reminded inevitably of
the character in that Reggie Perrin T V programme: ‘Am I
right or am I right!’ – and then does her own thing anyway.
In this case she’s considering taking a year out to
build on this amazing achievement.
Even the sight of Tweedledum and Tweedledee munching
their way steadily through sandwiches, pies and chocolate
snacks doesn’t spoil her absolute joy in this moment. Her
thoughts rest anxiously upon the new dress packed in
the bag on the rack above her head – is it suitable for a
presentation? – and on the telephone conversation she had
with Kate Porteous, David Porteous’ widow. Kate sounded
friendly, enthusiastic about the Award, looking forward to
meeting her, and Jess is grateful for the phone call.
‘Let’s meet up before the presentation,’ Kate suggested.
‘Why don’t we? Or will you be too busy with your family?’
‘No,’ Jess answered, slightly embarrassed. She has no
close family on hand to offer support or encouragement
or share her joy: no siblings or cousins; her only
surviving grandparent lives in Australia. And she doesn’t
want to go into details about Mum being too busy with
some diplomatic function to be able to get over for the
presentation. ‘But two friends from uni will be at the
ceremony.’
‘Great. Look, I’ll give you my address. David’s daughter
kept his studio and she lets me use it when I’m in London.
I was his second wife, you see. When are you planning to
travel? I’m coming up from Cornwall the day before . . .’
They talked for a little longer and so the arrangement
was made. Jess would meet Kate at David’s studio – his
actual studio, where he’d done most of his work – and
then they’d go out for supper and talk about what life was
like with the great artist. It is the icing on the cake. Jess
bites her lip to prevent herself from grinning madly with
sheer pleasure at the prospect of it all.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee are now slaking their
joint thirsts with fizzy drinks in cans; squeezed together,
they perspire and shift uncomfortably. Jess sits back in her
corner and watches the countryside sliding past beyond
the window. The journey has begun.
At much the same time, Kate’s train from Cornwall passes
across the Bolitho Viaduct, and she sees a young woman
and two small boys in the field below. They are standing
in a row, staring upwards, waving furiously at the train.
Seized by an impulse, she leans forward and waves back.
The small boys jump about, waving with both hands, and
she hopes they have seen her and redoubles her efforts.
She sinks back in her seat, aware of the quizzical glance
of the man opposite. He takes a newspaper from his briefcase
and she is relieved. She doesn’t want to get into a
conversation, to explain her actions. Instead her mind
turns to the past, towards picnics and outings when her
twin boys were small: treks over Dartmoor, afternoons
on the beach. In these memories it is always just the three
of them: she and Guy and Giles. Even in the pre-divorce
memories Mark is rarely with them. His submarine would
have been at sea, showing the f lag abroad. Then after the
divorce, years later, when Guy and Giles were at university,
there was David with whom she shared fifteen happy
years between her house on the edge of Tavistock and
David’s studio in London. She met artists, photographers,
actors, enjoyed first nights, private exhibitions, studio
parties: it was a world away from the nav y and married
quarters.
And now Guy and Giles are married with children of
their own, and David is dead – and she is on her way
to London to meet Jess Penhaligon, who has won his
Botanical Painting Award.
‘Not related to the actress?’ asked Kate, to whom the
name sounds familiar, and Jess, sounding puzzled, said
no, there were no actresses in the family so far as she
knew.
It’s rather sad, thinks Kate, that Jess has no family coming
to the ceremony. It was clear that she didn’t want to talk
about this, although when Kate said she was travelling
up from Cornwall Jess said: ‘Cornwall? My father’s family
came from Cornwall. My grandfather was in the nav y. Do
you live there?’
Kate explained that, after David died, she’d sold the
house in Tavistock and had been renting a friend’s cottage
on the north coast of Cornwall for the last three years.
They talked about what it was like to be married to an
artist, and how difficult it was to make a living, and Jess
said proudly – though rather shyly – that she had a new
ambition: to be acknowledged by the Society of Botanical
Artists. Kate smiles to herself as the train speeds towards
Plymouth. It is a huge aspiration, but Jess might just make
it.
As the man opposite turns the pages of his newspaper,
and the refreshment trolley comes clattering along, some-
thing that Jess has said niggles at the back of Kate’s mind.
It keeps niggling whilst she asks for coffee and thinks
about the cottage she’s buying in Tavistock. She has been
persuaded that she should get back into the market while
the prices are low, and she knows it’s sensible, but she’s
not certain she wants the responsibility of buying to let,
and she can’t decide whether she wants to move back to
Tavistock. She likes living on the north coast, on the sea’s
doorstep, and within walking distance of the writer Bruno
Trevannion – landlord, friend, lover.
Her friendship with Bruno has been very important
during these last few years, since David died and Guy
moved to Canada with his little family to work with his
father in his boatyard. She misses Guy and Gemma and
their young boys, worried that their relationship – already
shaky when they moved – might have grown worse with
Gemma so far from home and depending on two such
undemonstrative men for company. Her own marriage
foundered on Mark’s lack of warmth, his detached
indifference and bitter tongue, and though Guy is not
exactly like his father there are enough similarities for
Kate to fear that history might repeat itself.
She sips the coffee, thinks about Jess again. As the
train rumbles its way slowly across Brunel’s iron bridge
Kate gazes down towards the Hamoaze, where little sails
f lit to and fro and the ferry plies between Torpoint and
Devonport. Turning to look the other way, beyond the road
bridge, she sees the familiar imposing façade of Johnnie
Trehearne’s manor house, set on the banks of the Tamar,
and suddenly she makes the connection with the niggling
thought in the back of her mind and Jess Penhaligon.
Kate remembers Jess saying, ‘My father’s family came
from Cornwall. My grandfather was in the nav y,’ and she
wonders if Jess’s grandparents might be Mike and Juliet
Penhaligon. Forty years ago Mike was a submariner, like
Mark, and a favourite with the Trehearnes. Old Dickie
Trehearne was Flag Officer Submarines, back then, and
the parties at the elegant old house above the Tamar were
legendar y.
All the young cadets knew Al and Johnnie Trehearne.
For centuries the Trehearnes had been sailors, traders,
merchantmen, and Dickie and his sons followed in
the tradition by joining the Royal Nav y. When he was
knighted, Dickie threw a wonderful party that spilled out
of the house and into the sea garden. It lasted until the
early dawn. Kate sighs, remembering: such an evening
it had been. Leaning forward to catch another glimpse
of the house, she sees the shadows from her past: young
officers in uniform, girls in long dresses. She feels the
sharp twisting pain of nostalgia; names echo like a roll call
and she murmurs them under her breath: Al and Johnnie
Trehearne, Mike Penhaligon, Freddy Grenvile . . .
On that Saturday of the party, all those years ago, she
travelled up to Plymouth on this same railway line from
Penzance, feeling shy; even awkward. She’d hesitated
about accepting the invitation.
‘Don’t start dithering,’ Cass had warned her. ‘I know
Mark’s not invited but that’s because he’s not part of the
Trehearnes’ in-crowd. So what? You’re not engaged to him
yet. Good grief, you only met him a few weeks ago. Come
and enjoy yourself. They always need extra girls and it’s
a really big party. Dickie Trehearne’s just been promoted
to Flag rank and knighted, and he’s invited loads of young
officers. You’ll adore Johnnie Trehearne. You met him at
the Summer Ball. Remember? Well, anyway, Tom and I
are going and I know you’ll just love it down there on the
Tamar.’
Beautiful, blonde, naughty – Cass was her closest
friend. Five years together at boarding school on the
north Somerset coast had created a strong bond, and both
girls were determined that the friendship would survive
beyond school. Now Cass had met a young naval officer,
Tom Wivenhoe, and was falling in love with him, she was
determined that Kate should be part of the naval scene,
too. It was because of Cass that Kate had been invited to
the Summer Ball at Dartmouth a few weeks earlier – and
now to the Trehearnes’ party.
As she made that summertime journey from St Just,
Kate wondered if Cass was already regretting introducing
her to Mark. Tom and Mark were in the same house at the
Royal Naval College, they both had ambitions to become
submariners, but they weren’t ver y close friends. Mark
was reserved, quiet, a bit of a loner; Tom was extrovert,
noisy, loved a crowd. It was sheer luck for Kate that Mark’s
prospective partner had twisted her ankle and Tom –
egged on by Cass – persuaded Mark that Cass had a very
pretty friend who would be happy to take the poor girl’s
place at short notice.
The Royal Naval College, set high above the river, the
ball gowns, the uniforms, the Royal Marines’ Band playing
on the quarterdeck at sunset: the Summer Ball had
been the most romantic, exciting party Kate had ever been
at; she couldn’t imagine anything being more glorious.
She’d fallen in love at once; with Dartmouth, the river, the
nav y – and with the tall, handsome Mark, who seemed the
embodiment of all these glories.
Perhaps Cass had a point, thought Kate. She and Mark
had exchanged telephone numbers and addresses, and a
meeting was being planned, but she was still free to go
to a party. She was in no way committed to him and it
would be crazy to turn down such an opportunity. Mark
might even be impressed that she’d been invited to such a
popular senior officer’s party. Cass was right: it would be
fun and she’d regret it if she didn’t go.
Yet as she got down from the train, hoping her linen shift
dress wasn’t too crushed and clutching her overnight case,
she was seized again by anxiety. She would know nobody
but Cass – and Tom, just a bit but not very well yet – and
she would be hopelessly out of her depth. She wished she
hadn’t come, even contemplated hopping back into the
safety of the train, and then two young men appeared out
of the bustle of holiday crowds on the platform.
‘Kate,’ called one of them, a fair-haired, rather stocky
young man with a warm smile. ‘It is Kate, isn’t it? We met
at the Summer Ball. Johnnie Trehearne.’ She remembered
him at once and with huge relief took his outstretched hand.
‘And this is my cousin, Fred Grenvile.’ He turned to his taller
companion. ‘You said you’d met Kate at the ball, Fred.’
‘You were with Mark Webster,’ said Fred, shaking her
hand in his turn, giving her an appreciative grin. ‘We all
agreed that he didn’t deser ve you.’
She laughed, suddenly feeling delightfully confident,
and he took her bag and they all went out into the station
car park, where a Hillman Imp waited.
‘My mother’s car,’ Johnnie said rather regretfully,
patting the dented nearside bumper tenderly. ‘But she’s
ver y generous with it. Al pranged it last week and I have
to say she was ver y good about it. But then Al can do no
wrong. Did you meet my big brother, Al?’
He opened the passenger door and Kate slid in; sitting in
the sun-warmed seat, she wondered if she’d met Al. There
had been so many young men, alike in their uniforms, full
of vitality and confidence.
‘Doesn’t matter if you didn’t,’ said Fred, climbing in behind
her, leaning forward. ‘You’ll have your chance in a
minute. He wanted to come to meet you but Johnnie and
I won the toss.’
Instinctively Kate knew that this wasn’t true, that these
two young ones had been detailed off to meet a fairly
unimportant guest coming by train, and her heart was
warmed by his courtesy.
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I remember you and Johnnie but I
don’t remember Al.’
‘A-ha,’ crowed Fred triumphantly, hitting Johnnie’s
shoulder. ‘We’ve scored, Johnnie, my boy. She remembers
us but she doesn’t remember Al. It’s a first. You must be
sure to tell him, Kate, when you meet him. You will, won’t
you? I can’t wait to see his face.’
Kate glanced at Johnnie as he drove out of the car park
and saw that he was smiling too, and she was filled with
an irrational and overwhelming affection for these two;
for Johnnie and Fred.
The train rattles off the bridge and Kate sits back reluctantly
in her seat. The man sitting opposite is watching her
rather anxiously. He raises his newspaper a little higher,
screening himself, and Kate is left to her memories: the
ghosts of her youth and that first party at the Trehearnes’
house on the Tamar.
As the forty-foot yawl Alice sails through the busy waters
towards the two bridges Sophie, sitting in the cockpit,
glances up to watch the train rumbling off the bridge.
Two children are standing at a carriage window, waving,
and quickly, instinctively, Sophie waves back. Johnnie
Trehearne, standing at the helm, smiles.
‘Friends of yours?’ he asks idly.
She laughs. ‘Don’t you remember doing that when you
were little? Waving at trains and lorry drivers and passing
cars? It was always such a thrill if anyone waved back.’
‘If you say so,’ he says agreeably.
They’re heading upriver under power, avoiding a little
group of racing Laser dinghies and a couple of Sunday
sailors who take their boats out only at the weekend or
at holiday time. Johnnie feels the sense of contentment
that he always has out on the river or at sea. That moment
when the anchor is hauled up, the mooring is dropped,
or as the distance widens between boat and quayside,
is when he is happiest. Perhaps, having spent his young
years in the shadow of his older brother – glamorous,
brilliant Al – it was his own way, back then, of experiencing
independence and pride in his abilities. As a child, being
alone in the dinghy – skimming over the water, testing his
skills against the wind and the tide – expanded his self-
esteem and confidence in a way that was never possible if
Al was near.
Today, as they motor up with the tide, Sophie’s presence
adds to his contentment. She is housekeeper, gardener,
chief cook and bottle-washer, companion and ally. A close
friend of his younger daughter, Sophie has been with
them since both girls left university, and now, twenty
years on, she is as dear to him as any other member of
his family.
‘One of Johnnie’s lame ducks’: this is how his mother
referred to her in those early years, when he insisted that
Sophie must be paid a salary for all the work she did.
Yet Johnnie knows how much they owe to Sophie who
has seen them through deaths and births and daily joys
and traumas, with her own off-beat common sense and
philanthropic cheerfulness. She came to them to recover
from an abortion and a broken relationship, and simply
stayed on. It’s a bonus that she loves sailing and is a very
competent sailor. After his darling Meg died, and when his
girls and their families moved abroad – Louisa to Geneva,
Sarah to Germany – he would have been very lonely
without Sophie.
Johnnie wonders if even Sophie knows just how much
he misses his girls and their children. He knows he’s lucky
that they return at regular intervals to invade the house,
sail his boats, and have parties in the sea garden. And here
again, he knows that part of their readiness to travel from
Geneva and Germany is due to the fact that Sophie is here
to plan and organize, and make things comfortable and
easy for them. They often bring friends and their children,
and they continue to celebrate birthdays and Christmases
together here on the Tamar. His throat constricts a little
as he thinks of his sweet, loving Meg; how much she has
missed, and how happy her pretty, clever daughters and
their boisterous, fun-loving children would have made
her.
The tide is sweeping in, carrying them up the wide
reaches of the river where the gulls abandon their feeding
grounds and the tawny rustling marshes are threaded
and crisscrossed with blue rivulets as the water pours into
deep muddy channels.
Sophie glances at her watch. ‘We’ll be in good time for
lunch,’ she says. ‘Rowena will be pleased.’ And a quick
humorous glance goes between them, acknowledging the
tyranny of the older generation.
Johnnie’s mother – Rowena, Lady T, the granny-monster,
depending on who speaks – continues to live with him.
Frail, dominant, ungrateful, she is still a presence to be
reckoned with, but he loves her – as far as she allows any
show of emotion – much as he has always done.
The house, with its spare elegant lines, can be seen
clearly now, set amongst lawns and shrubberies that slope
to the sea garden and the river. The sea garden, created by
one of Johnnie’s ancestors, is built on the foundations of
a quay. Its grassy spaces curl out into the river, bounded
by lavender hedges and, on the seaward edge, by a stone
balustrade. Guarding it, gazing downriver towards the
sea, stands the imposing figurehead of Circe, taken from
an old sailing ship.
Between Circe and The Spaniards, the pub on the
western bank of the Tamar in Cargreen, stretches an
imaginary line. This is the finishing line for many a
race during childhood days: Al and Mike in the Heron,
he and Fred in The Sieve. Johnnie suddenly remembers
that particularly glorious day when, for the first and last
time, he and Fred crossed the line ahead of the Heron,
and brief ly he is a boy again, laughing with Fred as they
paddle The Sieve into the boathouse.
In the end it was Al who gave The Sieve its name. Fred
discovered the boat – an old National 12 lying neglected
behind a shed in Cargreen – while he was helping in the
garden to earn extra pocket money. Its owner had gone to
war in 1942, never to return, and his widow was only too
pleased to allow Fred to take the boat away for nothing.
He consulted with Johnnie, who asked his father for
permission to put the National 12 in their boathouse so
that he and Fred could rebuild it.
It was clear that his father was delighted with their
initiative. He drove them round the head of the river to
Cargreen, loaded the boat onto his trailer, brought it back
and installed it in the boathouse.
It took more than a year to restore her. The boys earned
money where they could, saved their pennies, bought the
timber and other things they needed, and spent all their
spare time working on her. They loved their boat and as
they worked on her they tried out names for her: nothing
seemed quite right.
‘Avocet?’
‘Boring.’
‘Queen of the Tamar?’
‘Pretentious.’
‘Al’s Doom?’
‘You must be kidding.’
One afternoon at tea-time, after a few hours’ work in
the boathouse, Johnnie and Fred wandered up to the sea
garden. Al was there with Mike, and Johnnie called out:
‘She’ll be ready to launch tomorrow. We’ll be taking you
on any time now.’
His father strolled to meet them, carrying his teacup,
smiling at the two younger boys.
‘Good work,’ he said approvingly. ‘We’ll do the job
properly and Mother shall break a bottle of champagne
against the bow in the approved manner.’
Johnnie beamed at him, thrilled at the prospect of an
official launch to honour the hard work he and Fred had
put in. He knew that his father did not quite approve of
the way that Al commandeered the Heron so that nobody
else got a look-in, but this fellow feeling was unspoken
between them, not to be acknowledged. Yet Johnnie was
comforted by their complicity.
‘And after the launch we’ll do sea trials,’ said Fred,
unable to contain his excitement. ‘Just to check her out.’
‘Don’t forget to have the coastguard on standby.’ Al’s
voice was amused, not quite jeering. He lounged on the
grass near his mother, confident of her approval, and she
smiled at his remark. Mike leaned against the balustrade,
grinning. ‘A couple of Jumblies,’ Al continued more contemptuously,
encouraged by his mother’s partisanship,
‘going to sea in a sieve.’
And the name stuck.
‘We beat the old Sieve again today, Mother.’
‘How many times now has The Sieve capsized, Freddy?
Shouldn’t it be in The Guinness Book of Records?’
So Al and Mike teased and mocked the two younger
boys and continue to win their races. This was usually
because they were more focused, more determined – they
were competitive even with each other – whilst Johnnie
and Fred were content simply to enjoy themselves.
And then, on that particularly magic afternoon, The Sieve
beat the Heron; sailing inboard around the windward
buoy, and on to cross that invisible line stretched between
Circe and The Spaniards, ahead of Mike and Al. Johnnie
cheered and saluted Circe as they skimmed past the sea
garden, heading for the boathouse. They dropped the
sails and paddled her in through the big doorway, joyfully
reliving every moment of the race, comparing notes.
They were too busy at first, furling the mainsail, to
notice the grim faces of Al and Mike as they paddled the
Heron into the boathouse behind them. Not for these two
the gracefulness in defeat expected – even demanded –
of Johnnie and Fred. Al snarled at Mike, who snapped
back; they blamed each other, and so bitter were their
recriminations that the pleasure of success was almost
done away with; almost but not quite. Johnnie and
Fred remained quietly exultant, tasting the first sweets
of triumph, and it was then that Johnnie realized the
friendship between Al and Mike was not of the same depth
as the bond that existed between him and Fred. Perhaps it
was then he ceased to env y his older brother.
And now, remembering, Johnnie sees the foreshadowing
of the dangerous quality of that deep rivalr y between Al
and Mike, usually masked by their apparently close-knit
friendship. Here the seeds were sown that f lowered so
disastrously years later, when Mike won the beautiful
Juliet, whom Al desired. Johnnie remembers the four of
them – he and Fred, Al and Mike – sailing home from
another race; the raised voices, the sudden gybe of the
boat and then Mike’s frantic voice: ‘Man overboard!’ and
he and Fred scrambling from their bunks below. They
searched all night but Al’s body was never found.
As he slows the engine and circles the buoy, Johnnie
salutes Circe as he always does, and Sophie goes forward
to pick up the mooring. They are home.