Читать книгу Sea Change - Ian Dickens - Страница 17

My last weekend at home was supposed to provide plenty of quiet time for just each other, but it never really materialised. We had a mound of paperwork that needed sorting – this was the last chance for eight thousand miles and at the bottom of the large pile was a final draft from the solicitor. No matter how practical it all was, seeing the title ‘Last will and testament’ still brought me up short. There, in black and white, were all the details that would ensure a trouble-free handover of everything that related to me, should the unthinkable happen and the Army lecturer’s prophecy came true.

We changed the subject quickly and moved to the huge world map taking pride of place in the mission control centre of the kitchen. Holly and Michael joined in, their fingers pointing at the stopovers where they would be on the quayside and we would be reunited as a family. The Galápagos stop was already booked and the long journey via Amsterdam, Curaçao, Guayaquil and Quito, with an arrival time of 23 December, already promised a Christmas like no other.

From there, Mike’s finger trailed left, across huge areas of blue, traversing the Pacific to the edge of the map, before picking up from the opposite side and continuing left again, past the Far East, over the Indian Ocean, to finally pause on the small island of Mauritius. The idea of his spring half-term holiday seemed too far off to be real and the May arrival time was worryingly distant for all of us. The journey continued again, heading up to the more familiar seaboard of North America and ending with an excited jab at the black dot marking New York. If Mauritius was a distant thought, then the next summer holidays were a lifetime away.

Through the kitchen window I could see my turbo-powered, metallic paint-clad, alloy-wheeled, air-conditioned director-style car with its leather seats and CD changer. But not for much longer. I had no need for it and it represented a massive bucket of travel vouchers that would get the family to the three locations already booked. Anne’s first task after I had gone, was to go and sample the delights of negotiating a fair price for it. She had already put one over-cocky salesman in his place and, with the help of a friend in the trade, I knew that she would get a decent amount of cash.

We worked through all the practical details that needed sorting and, as we did, I continued to be fuelled by a surging energy that willed the adventure to start. I knew that the emotions of departure were bubbling beneath the surface, especially for Anne, but selfishly I shooed them away. Partly out of excitement and partly out of fear over what would be unleashed if I truly addressed them.

If I had been more in tune with the rest of the family’s emotions, we would have spent the evening at home in front of the fire. Instead we were at the local pub, where another jolly farewell party was in full swing. The bar was full of Tiger Moth pilots from Charlie’s Diamond Nine display team, who were due to perform their last-ever public display the following day. They had also generously agreed to overfly the start as a special farewell for me and my boat the following weekend.

And while I enjoyed the ribald toasts, the warm wishes of good luck, the backslapping and the offer of another pint of Greene King, Anne was really struggling.

She was being asked the same questions by well-meaning friends and as she tried to cope with yet another explanation as to how she would cope on her own, the armour was finally pierced. This tough, brave, sassy woman, who had offered nothing other than unconditional support and love over the last twelve months, had to flee the bar. Eventually she emerged from the Ladies, eyes red raw, attempting to play it all down with a watery grin and a heavily chewed lip. It was clearly a real struggle to be there and watch another round of goodbyes. In such a fragile state, each farewell was like a nail through her heart and, true to form, I was horribly oblivious of how difficult it all was for her to endure.

So focused was I on what lay ahead for me, I had been blindly ignorant and unthinking about what it might be like for other members of the family. I just wanted to get on with it, put the waiting and the training behind me and put into practice all that I had learnt. Surely everyone must be thinking the same way?

It was a child’s simple observation that finally opened my eyes and brought me back to earth with a bump. I was sitting on the floor at home, half watching crappy TV, enjoying a glass of red and a slice of pizza cooked by Mike, in the way that our regular Sunday-evening routine dictated, when he turned to me and said, ‘Dad, do you realise this is the last Sunday night we will spend together for almost a year?’

In typical twelve-year-old-boy fashion, he’d made a simple observation, not one designed to open a wound or to crave attention – just an honest and practical passing comment.

Now, just when I needed to be in reassuring hero-father mode, I almost let it all go and was perilously close to sobbing like a baby in front of them all.

I headed back to the boat on Monday morning and used the time on the train to draft letters to Anne and the children, which I would leave as a surprise on their pillows. Once again the jangled and exposed nerve of emotion kicked in. Writing letters, particularly to your son and daughter, as you go away for nearly a year, placing yourself at the mercy of the oceans and trying to reassure and not patronise, proved unexpectedly hard. It was supposed to be a positive missive reassuring them of the adventure to come, but as the words came out, the sheer breadth of separation really took hold and as I bashed at the keys during the familiar journey down to the capital, tears streamed down my cheeks. At least it gave the commuters something to think about, especially as the regulatory uniform of suit, tie and briefcase had been replaced by a bright-yellow foul-weather jacket, T-shirt and kitbag.

I clearly no longer conformed and was delighted that the seat next to me was carefully ignored for several stops, before someone was brave enough to take it. Stepping out of myself and seeing the picture of my usual day as if for the first time highlighted what the year ahead was all about. Some things would be truly easier to miss than others and I thrilled once more at my decision.

The scene that greeted me when I stepped back into the marina car park looked like a Tesco truck had exploded. Everywhere there were great piles of cans, pack after pack of tea bags, vast catering drums of coffee, stacks of loo rolls, jars of Marmite, tubes of tomato puree, bag after bag of pasta in every conceivable shape, plastic packages of rice, box after box of Weetabix, Corn Flakes and Frosties, and a great pile of cartons of the long-life milk that would wash the cereal down over the next three months.

This was the result of my shopping list, and now supplies to keep fourteen people fed and watered for three meals a day for seventy days had to be squeezed on board. Everything in cardboard had to be de-packed and repacked. Every label on every tin had to be removed and the contents marked with an indelible pen. With no fridge or freezer on board, the location of milk, butter and cheese had to be selected carefully and the whereabouts of every single piece of food had to be logged so that we knew in which corner of the boat it could be found.

The entire crew formed a long chain and over the course of a day the piles of stores slowly dwindled. By eight in the evening we were done, by which time not an ounce of extra space could be found under the floorboards, under bunks, in lockers and in the galley itself. The newly painted last coat of anti-fouling had now vanished under the waterline and London sat lower in the water than we had ever seen.

We had wanted to spend at least a day back out at sea, working up the first-leg crew so that we were truly prepared for the start. But with the daily work list showing no sign of diminishing, time was running out. There were numerous small tasks of boat maintenance still to be done, route planning for the first seven-day leg down to Portugal still to be prepared and all the spare parts that had been ordered had still to be delivered and stowed.

The sea would have to wait. Stuart was less than happy and, with a full complement of crew on board for the first time, we were all equally anxious to work ourselves up into a well-oiled racing machine. Thirty thousand spectators were expected at the start and, on top of that, our every move would be watched by the all-seeing TV and still cameras of the assembled press. We were all eager to do it right.

Danny Farmer had already hung up the ignition keys to his London taxi and joined Gary Bower on board. They would both leave the boat in Hong Kong, having taken her halfway around the world. James Landale would be with us through to Hawaii, before a General Election would force him back to his role as political correspondent for The Times. Patrick Seagar had left his florist business for the seven weeks that it would take to get to Cuba and photographer Roy Riley would be leaving us in Portugal, having used his Nikon to capture the drama of the first leg for the news pages.

The last week flew by and while the rest of the crew took London round to the start base at Port Solent, I jumped on a train and headed for home for the very last time.

Everything I needed to pack was already on the boat and my locker was stuffed full of the tiny wardrobe of clothes that would see me through the year. I had nothing left to take, other than my toothbrush and the family, who would travel back with me in readiness for the race start. It was a Thursday evening and we lit some candles and had supper as a family, the dog sitting close to Michael, waiting for the inevitable spillage from his plate. We talked as we normally did, joked as we normally did, ate and drank as we normally did and went to our beds as we normally did. It was a Thursday, just like any other. Everything was normal, routine, unexceptional, except that it would be my last night in the house for eleven long months.

In the morning I had my usual cup of tea, shared a biscuit with the dog, took a shower and listened to 5 Live on the radio. As they went through the regular time checks, I knew that the same commuting faces would be lining up along the platform waiting for my old train. I knew that in London the office shutters would be rolling up about now, the mainframe was being switched on for the day, and I knew that the traffic on the M25 was building up badly around junction 19.

I ate the breakfast I normally ate and waited for the children to appear from their bed, as was the norm for a weekday morning. A watery sun shone, picking up the glossy sheen of freshly ploughed brown soil in the fields beyond the garden. The season was turning and for the first time in my life it would all happen without me. The morning continued just like any other. Holly arrived pyjama-clad, bleary-eyed and hair in spikes, closely followed by Mike. I got an absent-minded kiss on the cheek and a vague hug before they settled down to eat and the radio continued to offer its time checks and M25 traffic updates.

It was all perfectly normal and just a little unreal, until the dog was driven off to stay with friends for the weekend and we were reminded that this was my last few minutes with all that was familiar.

A clock had started ticking and the excitement of the previous months were replaced with a nerve that grew more raw as the second hand rotated. When the taxi arrived, Anne, Holly and Michael piled in, while I went to each bedroom in turn and left my notes on the pillow. Just doing that had my eyes stinging furiously, and as I took one last, long look inside before closing the door on my home, something became firmly lodged in my eye. Well, that’s what I told the taxi driver.

He left us at the station and a few late commuters eyed us suspiciously. ‘Children out of school, man dressed like something off a tin of John West salmon, strong-willed woman who refuses to let go of his hand. Very odd. Very odd indeed.’ But it did ensure that we got most of the carriage to ourselves. After heading into London and then out the other side, the train made its slow and steady progress towards Portsmouth. A ticket inspector stamped the four tickets, only three of which were returns, but if he thought it odd he kept it to himself.

We had agreed that on such an emotional weekend the idea of Anne carrying my precious family around the busy motorway network as she headed for home was an extra we could all do without – hence the train. And even though it made sense, I looked at them lost in their own thoughts and tried to stave off a whole horror list of train crashes, taxi smashes and house fires that chose that moment to come and test my resolve.

Down at the marina there was the usual buzz of activity and I got stuck into it all, happy to have something to occupy my mind. The family went off to explore, and when we met in the evening at the hotel we were back on to an even keel, still steadfastly ignoring the dreaded moment that would take place just twenty-four hours later. While the kids abused room service, Anne and I went to a pre-race party attended by all the crew.

Try as we might, the party mood failed to truly kick in and no matter what we had to drink, both of us were unable to enjoy the moment. We snuck off into the night and had a last look around London, sitting proudly at her moorings. A full moon shone across the water and the sounds of the party drifted towards us as we looked at what would be my home for the next year. We stared intently at her suddenly small and vulnerable confines, willing them to yield at least a flavour of the adventures that we would share together, but she was asleep for the night and refused to indulge our whims.

We were back the next day, Holly and Michael spending time around my bunk before we stepped ashore. The next time they would be on board would be in the Pacific, and as we walked slowly away I turned to catch Anne placing a kiss on her hand and then transferring it to the hull at the approximate position of my bunk. The red eyes had returned and I looked quickly away, pretending not to notice such a small yet intimate act of love. The kiss was not just for me, it was also for the boat, and already Anne was demonstrating the deep-seated respect and bond that a sailor develops for his craft. I was hugely touched, and once again the tears pricked heavily in my eyes.

Back at the hotel we were almost at zero hour. We had agreed that goodbyes were going to be said on the eve of the race and that, having said them, I would go and join my crew mates on board. It would allow race day to dawn as the first day of our adventure and, while I could focus on what lay ahead, my family could tick the first day off the diary, which would mean the year until my homecoming was already a day shorter. The last thing any of us wanted was a protracted departure at the pontoon, where the time would linger and the act of letting go mooring lines, making the gap between quay and hull slowly widen, would be too cruel to endure. We would be surrounded by curious onlookers and embarrassed crew and it was far too public a place to conduct such an intense parting. The privacy of a hotel room would be so much better.

The hotel was one in a series of identical faceless buildings that dot the outskirts of most major towns in the UK. Dreadful muzak played through the luridly carpeted reception and floated around the green-waistcoated and name-badged staff. Debbie controlled reception, her sing-song voice greeting the weary traveller. Darren stood by with his luggage trolley, and in the bar Kevin and the rather racy Chantelle poured pints and dispensed packs of peanuts.

It was horribly impersonal for such a personal moment and our final supper took place in an overlit carvery, where a line of red lights squeezed the final juices out of the tired and overcooked meat. Mandy struggled with the corkscrew and poured the wine to taste with a shaking hand. Bread rolls were dispensed with an equally nervous double-spoon manoeuvre by John and, while I wanted the meal to last for ever, there was an equal desire to rush away from this dreadful attempt at being ‘posh’ as quickly as possible.

Then suddenly the plates had gone, the bill had been signed and we were back up in the overheated bedroom, with its trouser press and kettle. The dreaded moment could wait no longer.

Hugging Anne was fine. She was being strong and uttered nothing but positives. Michael was fine too, holding on to his emotions with a firm grip, as he became my man of the house for the year. And then the father had to say goodbye to the daughter. She rushed into the tightest embrace and as her head pushed hard against mine, sobs racked every part of her body.

And at that point I was undone. All the bravado and the excitement and the single-minded focus simply evaporated away. As she sobbed I attempted to control my own sobs and not let out howls of anguished pain. She shook and I shook back and our tears mingled into a soggy mass on the swirly-patterned carpet.

Eventually we had to break apart and with my family framed in the doorway I walked away down the long corridor, a steady stream of salty droplets pouring down my cheeks. I was oblivious to the guests who emerged from their rooms and oblivious to the people in the lift.

Across reception, Debbie and Darren smirked at each other and just as I headed out through the revolving doors into the welcoming darkness of the night, Anne’s family appeared, ready to join in the start-line celebrations. I could only offer the crassest of welcomes and they clearly understood the private turmoil I was going through. I stumbled into the back of a taxi, consoled that family would soon be enveloping family, under the watchful gaze of Kevin and Chantelle.

Back at the boat my crew mates were returning in similar states of raw emotion, and as I stepped on board Ellie took one look and enfolded me in a huge hug. I headed for my bunk and discovered that the emotion was not yet done. Balloons were festooned from my tiny locker and three cards sat on my sleeping bag. Anne had written words of unconditional love and support. Michael had added a joke and a crude drawing of the boat – a token of his method of dealing with the situation. Once again Holly knew exactly how to hit the spot, and as I opened the card a pack of tiny gold metallic stars fell out.

She asked me to sprinkle a few of them on to the ocean every time we arrived in a port. Furthermore, I was asked to look deep into the vivid skies every night and say goodnight to the heavens, as she would be doing from her bedroom, snuggled high up under the thatch, back in Bedfordshire.

The emotion continued. I defy anyone not to lose it completely when they read a note that starts, ‘To my dearest Daddy’ and goes on to say, ‘This is one of the hardest things to do ever! Saying goodbye to a Daddy like you.’

For the second time in half an hour I lost it totally and wept unashamedly. Others on the boat must have heard but, in the most caring show of respect, they left me alone and ensured that new arrivals were aware, via a series of gently whispered words of warning. I spent a long time at my bunk, unable to talk to anyone, opting instead to sort and re-sort kit that had already been sorted.

With red-rimmed eyes I eventually went up on deck just as Patrick appeared on the pontoon, and in the darkness I watched as his wife and daughters went through a ritual identical to my own. Eventually the girls in his life headed off into the night, like a group of mourners stumbling away from a fresh grave, and Patrick stepped blindly through the crew in the same emotion-laden state as myself and headed for the sanctuary of his bunk.

All of us had been on the same roller coaster and, despite an attempt to have an alcohol-free night, we ended up opening a bottle of wine and helped each returnee with gentle and very touching waves of support.

Goodbyes against the backdrop of such an immense passage of time and potential danger were new to all of us. The morning goodbye on the way to the train, or the casual farewell before a day in a boardroom somewhere in Europe, had always been conducted with a vague thoughtlessness. A quick peck on a cheek, an absent-minded hug, an all-too-easy ‘Love you’ and I was off, hitting the ground running with a briefcase and a loaded appointment book. More often than not, some of the family would not even be awake for such partings and it bothered no one. I would be back later and because the journey had been so matter of fact, so routine, the welcome home would be equally lacking in intensity.

‘Darling. My God, how brilliant. You’ve returned. Fantastic. Wonderful. Look, children, this is your daddy. Do you remember him from this morning? God, it’s amazing. You got the 17.55 from King’s Cross? How was it? Come in, come in. Sit down, relax, have a drink.’

Hardly surprising that this never happened. But its absence only emphasised a brand-new and intense experience that had ambushed us all. It also revealed another new facet, where work mates – ones who were still comparative strangers – went out of their way to ensure that their colleagues were cared for and treated with the greatest sensitivity. Everywhere we turned, it seemed, important lessons were being learnt about a life that had been conducted in a climate of growing cynicism and tarnished values but was now being viewed as something virginally new.

All these lessons and we had yet to set sail.