I used to pride myself on my ‘stew face’, as I once heard someone call the calm, polite expression used by yacht interior crew the world over when a charter is going to hell in a handbasket.Nothingcould make me break my mask of professionalism. But I seem to have lost that ability too.
‘On traumatic brain injuries,’ he adds. ‘When I knew you were coming to stay. I thought I should be … prepared.’
Once again, Gil has surprised me. This isn’t the Gil I knew from five years ago, who was cavalier and uncaring. Did Megan’s accident have more of an impact on him than I realized?
I’m so used to bickering with him I’m not sure how to respond, so I press my lips into a wry smile. ‘Did this book of yours tell you what to do when your painting sucks?’
‘Nope.’
I sigh. ‘Pity.’
Gil looks at the closed bin. ‘Are you going to show it to me?’
It’s my turn to laugh. ‘No.’
He shrugs. ‘Moping around isn’t going to solve anything.’
‘Ouch,’ I say, but I can’t argue with him.
He regards me carefully for a short while, then heads towards the atrium. ‘Come on …’
‘What?’ I call after him. ‘Where are we going?’
He’s disappeared out of sight, but I can hear him picking up keys from a hook in the hallway. ‘Fresh air always helps,’ he calls back.
‘Now you’re sounding like my mother,’ I grumble under my breath, but I stop guarding the bin and follow him.
* * *
When we reach the end of the lane and turn into the village, the weather has shifted. The clouds have melted away, revealing a glorious August day.Gil turns towards the river and heads across the road to the Ferryboat Inn. ‘What do you you want?’ he asks, standing in the doorway.
I peer into the gloomy interior of the centuries-old pub, with its thick walls and beams on the ceiling. It’s the last week of the summer holidays and even on a Friday lunchtime, it’s packed, and the noise level is far from comfortable. ‘Um … I’m okay.’
He gives me a look. ‘Sit on the wall over there and I’ll bring it out to you.’
I turn and spot a low wall at the edge of the road that leads past the jetty. The thought of sitting there in the sunshine watching the boats bob up and down on their moorings, a cold glass in my hand, fills me with relief. ‘A sparkling water, please.’
He nods and disappears inside. I find a pleasant spot on the wall and support myself on my arms while stretching my legs out. Gil appears a couple of minutes later. ‘Thanks,’ I say as I take my drink from him. He’s holding what looks like orange juice mixed with something fizzy. ‘I thought you’d go for a craft beer or something.’
He shrugs and looks out across the water. ‘Simon said a while ago that he’d given up the drink while you couldn’t have any. Thought I’d take the same approach.’
I’m strangely touched by this. I don’t remember being that appreciative when Simon made the same gesture, but I suppose I was still numb inside my post-coma ball of emotional cotton wool. Looking back, it’s as if my feelings were there but greyed out and insipid when I first woke up, and they’ve slowly been regaining colour and vibrancy as the weeks have gone by.
I squint against the sun. ‘Well, he did … but only for about a month after I got out of hospital. You know Simon and his red wine.’
Gil’s lips curve into a smile. ‘Oh, yes. I do.’
For the next ten minutes, we sit in silence and sip our drinks. When we’ve finished, Gil takes the glasses back inside and then leads the way down the jetty. The tide is right in, covering the strip of shingly, muddy beach and all four of the long pontoons are floating on the water. We walk to the end one, feeling the breeze from the river ruffling our hair, a wonderful counterpart to the midday sun.
There are two boys on the pontoon next to us, almost identical in looks, but one is slightly taller than the other. I’d put them at about fourteen and sixteen. Each has a bright plastic bucket at his feet and is holding a fishing line wrapped around a plastic contraption.
‘How many have you got?’ the taller boy asks, peering at his brother’s bucket.
‘Three,’ the younger one replies, and then adds, ‘More than you!’
‘Are you crabbing?’ I ask them, trying to peer inside their buckets.
The older one looks at me suspiciously, but the younger one nods. ‘Dad’s challenged us to catch ten each.’
