A looming confrontation

The sea is ponderous and grey. Early morning dew clings to the rigging and it's brittle cold. The sun is a weird crystal ball dissipating an emerald mist. Black-backed gulls dive-bomb a silver current - a shoal of mackerel.

I'm lugging a full pail of soapy water aft (that's to the stern, the rear of the vessel, for the uninitiated). The bucket is heavy and the water warm. It sloshes and spills and splashes my shoes. My toes squelch inside the sopping canvas. Deck-scrubbing duty is not exactly what I had in mind when my father suggested a leisurely sail down the west coast of Africa. I slam the bucket floor to the decking and blow into my hands. This business is for the birds. As though attune my thoughts, a gull screeches overhead and, with an obnoxious plop, a white-grey glob of crap splatters the deck at my feet. I pull the collars of my duffel coat closed and breathe plumes of smoky breath into the chilled air. What wouldn't I give to be home?

It's spring 1934, two years prior, and there's a pleasant breeze. I'm leaning at the fence leading to the woodland. Beside me, Raffles, raucous and excited, is leaping at butterflies and burrowing his nose into the damp soil. I gaze back towards Arbor Hall. It's a sensible, elegant sight. Nothing dramatic or savage about it. Rolling hills, stately poplars, a discreet curve of gravel. It’s been in the St John family for centuries. Mother’s haven from the world. I wonder what she’d make of all this.

On the far side of the schooner I see my father. He's in discussion with able seaman Jones, whom I recognise for his thatch of thick curly black hair and twitchy hand movements. My father’s expression is both empathy and concern. He’s not yet seen me.

Now is as good a time as any to approach. There’s nothing to be gained in running away. His words, not mine.

A familiar waft of floral perfume stops me in my tracks. Before I can hide, an exaggerated cough brings me about and I’m face-to-face with number two on my list, twirling a damned parasol, Miss Celeste Burroughs. I step backward and feel my foot plunge into the pail of water. Perfect.

‘Miss Burroughs.’ I tip my hat and ignore the bucket.

She’s all cool disdain and exquisite indifference. I step to the side and drag the bucketed foot with me. Without a word of acknowledgment, she brushes past; though I’m convinced she strays longer than necessary.

A mistress and a temptress. She’s just like the sea.