A Trick of the Mind (25 page)

‘The thing is’ he said, ‘as you know, I can only do it with assistance. You’re coming too.’

My heart plummeted. He was going to find out I’d hardly ever sailed.

‘Patrick, I’m not much of a sailor, I—’

‘But we were coming down here to sail the weekend of my accident,’ he said, frowning. ‘You
told
me you sailed. I’m sure I remember you saying.’

‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I’m out of practice, though.’

He had his back to me, his elbow resting on the crook of his crutch, trying to spread a piece of toast with butter with one hand. I moved over to help him.

‘Let me?’

He turned, smiled, the dimples I’d adored at first appearing in his cheeks, and in spite of my reservations I felt a pulse of desire for him, and wished the enormous deception that lay
between us could just go away.

He handed me the knife. Kissed me briefly on the cheek. I buttered his toast, fetched him coffee and jam and he sat and ate hungrily.

‘I’d love to come sailing with you,’ I said. ‘But not yet. You can’t sail with one leg!’

‘How do you think the long legacy of peg-legged pirates coped on the high seas?’

He slurped his coffee.

‘Wait till you’re better. Until you’re more used to the prosthetic.’

‘Ha-ha! I’m never going to be better though, am I?’

‘You will be.’ I sat down next to him, clutching my coffee cup.

‘What we’ll do,’ he said, ignoring me, ‘is we’ll take the
Enterprise
, OK? It’s smallish. Not the yacht, not yet, but you could manage the
Enterprise
single-handed if anything were to happen to me, couldn’t you?’

‘I’m not sure. I feel a bit queasy this morning, Patrick. I’d prefer to stay here.’ He ignored this.

‘We’ll just have a sail round the bay, go down to Dunwich maybe for a pub lunch, and come back in time for dinner.’

Dunwich! That was where he’d said Stef was going when her boat went out of control. The mouthful of coffee I’d taken refused to go down. I really did feel sick now.

‘We’ll be fine, Els,’ Patrick was saying. ‘The air will do you good. You can take over if my leg proves a problem. Remember’ – he grinned his irresistible
grin at me, dimples again, eyes sparkling – ‘no obstacle is insurmountable when you put your mind to it. We regard every problem as a challenge.’

‘I suppose this weather’s safe for sailing?’

I peered through the kitchen window, out across the windblown grass, trying to see whether the white clouds that stippled the blue sky were moving, and if so, how fast.

‘Of course it is. It’s beautiful. Sunny, a light breeze, perfect, a little dull for me but what the fuck. I need to get out there, I’m going stir-crazy, Ellie, and I need you
to help me.’

OK, so there was no choice. I would show Patrick, if I had to, that I was indeed the woman he believed I was, who liked sailing even though she wasn’t as good at it as she might have given
him the impression of being, and who loved the sea as much as he did.

And so I followed him out of the house and down to the harbour.

They looked small and easy to control, these sailing dinghies going about on the estuary, when you were standing on the esplanade. They looked no more than toy boats. What you
didn’t bargain for standing dry on the land was the force of the wind and the waves, the lack of regard the sea and the elements have for human frailty or fear.

And here, on the jetty, in the mouth of the estuary, a vague memory came to me, something long ago happening in this very place, or somewhere very similar. The swirling green beneath the
duckboards, a child with a crabbing net, of screaming to no avail ‘
no, no, no!
’ into the silence of the vast indifferent flatlands up towards Blythburgh, where the river lay
silent and broad reflecting the grey sky. No one answering.

A couple of old seafaring locals – going by the weather-beaten look of their skin – looked on.

‘There are storms forecast,’ one of them said, watching me struggle as we got the boat in the water. ‘You don’t want to be out too long.’ Patrick ignored him, his
face hardening at the man’s words. He issued orders. Although I didn’t know what the hell he was referring to when he asked me to untie the painter or tighten the shackle key, I tried
to look as though I was distracted by this talk of the weather rather than ignorant.

‘Are you sure it’s OK to go out in this weather?’ I asked.

The wind had got up as I tugged randomly at various bits and pieces, things that screwed in and things that you had to wedge between cleats, with the boom and the centre-board.

‘Of course it’s OK. We’re not wimps, are we, Ellie? Now, we’re ready to launch. Get in.’

The minute I stepped aboard I felt small, the boat unwieldy as it bucked on the water that was hardly rough here in the estuary yet already made me feel as if I was riding a rodeo. I did my
best, holding onto the side of the jetty with one hand as Patrick got in and shuffled to the stern to take the tiller. I could hear the water slap against the bows, the sails flap in the wind. Out
beyond the estuary, the sea looked deep and dark and forboding.

‘You know what to do, don’t you?’ Patrick shouted as he steered the boat out into the middle of the estuary.

‘Yes,’ I answered, but my voice was carried off in the wind.

The sails snapped rigid, straining, and the boat leapt forward, as the wind shifted so it was behind us. Spray hit my face hard and sharp as gravel and stung. I wanted to hold onto something
stable. I didn’t want to be on this boat at all. I wanted firm ground under my feet. I held tight to the rope that Patrick shouted at me to hold onto, the boat thrusting and rearing with the
strength of a wild horse. I thought of Patrick’s mottos, telling me every problem was a challenge, that you couldn’t live life within tight, restrictive boundaries – how inspiring
I’d found them at first. You have to step outside your comfort zone. I was definitely stepping outside my comfort zone.

‘Christ, concentrate, Ellie! Pull that jib sheet in tight,’ Patrick yelled above the flapping of the sail and the clanking of something against the mast. ‘Or we’ll be
over and I don’t fancy capsizing in this.’

In seconds we were out of the estuary and heading out to sea.

We turned about and the boat slowed down, and I relaxed a little. It was exhilarating, the wind in my face, the water slapping up on the sides of the boat, as we sailed out of the relative calm
of the estuary onto the wild North Sea. The seagulls mewled above as the salt stung my face.

I began to understand the appeal of this total immersion in and interaction with nature. But then the boat keeled over and I was in the grip of new fear.

There was too much to deal with to give anything else that much thought, however – a moment’s loss of concentration and we’d be over, and the water was not looking too
hospitable. I felt tense like the ropes I was clinging onto. I wasn’t a strong swimmer and I prayed we wouldn’t have to test my strength out here, where the waves were looking
increasingly massive. Overwhelming. How capable would we be of righting the boat were it to capsize, me with my lack of experience, Patrick with his leg?

I couldn’t think about it, must focus on keeping the boat upright. I tried not to think of what I knew about Stef, Patrick’s dead wife.

Of course the more you try not to think the more a vision insists on filling your mind. I saw, though I tried not to, the white horses on the waves turning pink with blood, and I shut my eyes
tightly. A vision of his wife in her wedding dress, the orbs of the power station behind her.

Patrick telling me that she had died in a power-boat incident, because she hadn’t listened to his warning, his strange tone of voice as he’d recalled the tragic event. His outburst
that she had let him down. The time he’d taunted me with talk of her corpse floating head up – or was it down – why had he done that? Was it just bravado? Or something else? NO. I
mustn’t think.

When I looked up, the shore had shrunk to a jagged line of pan-tiled rooftops, with the white lighthouse just poking up above them – a tiny group when seen from this perspective against
the heath to one side and the long strip of sandy beach to the other, each building etched in a white outline of light. I felt the breath catch in my throat. The boat was keeling over, I was inches
from the water. Patrick yelled at me that we must change tack and we went about, meaning I had to duck the boom as it swung across and shift myself to the other side of the boat.

Then the wind dropped and the sun caught my face, bright and warm through the blue sails.

The sea calmed and we were buffeted gently over the waves as we moved towards the shore.

My heart swelled. With relief, with triumph that I’d managed not to panic, and with something strong and as difficult to rein in as the boat on the waves.

Earlier, I had had a kind of out-of-control feeling, as if I’d relinquished my will to someone else and no longer had a handle on my own life. Now we were in sight of land, I was beginning
to feel I could do this. I was feeling strong. If I could hold my own out on the sea in a boat when I’d never sailed before, I could handle Patrick’s moods as well. If I played it
right, Patrick would never upset me again. I could do it! I could handle him. If I stayed by him, I might, by healing him, change him too. His mood swings would stop.

We would be so good for one another, he would help me take new risks with my life and my work, I would soothe away his fear of being abandoned, show him I loved him and wouldn’t let him
down.

And then we were there, approaching land, the wind behind us, the beautiful blue sails perpendicular now to the mast, like wings spread to either side of the boat, the sun on them.

Patrick pointed up at the cliffs.

‘That’s where the cemetery has crumbled into the sea, due to erosion. This was a city lost to the sea. Some people say you can see the bones from family vaults in the old churchyard,
jutting from the cliff ledge as if they were begging for mercy. Broken legs and arms all exposed by the relentless onslaught of the elements.’

‘Amazing.’

‘Yes, this was once the biggest market town in East Anglia. Not much left of it now as you’ll soon see. Now, chuck the painter, I’ll moor us to the jetty.’

I helped Patrick out of the boat and he used his crutches to walk the short distance up the track to the Ship pub.

The lunch tasted better, I thought, than any lunch I’d eaten in my life. Something to do with the energy burnt out on the sea, as we’d trapped the wind, using all the strength in our
arm muscles, confronting those waves, the invigoration of sea air in my lungs. It had all given us an appetite and we ate ravenously, both of us.

We had great crispy orange slabs of fish in beer batter and chunky hand-cut chips, and peas, and tartare sauce from a little bowl. We drank cider. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to
talk. Patrick ate as if his life depended on it, shovelling food into his mouth. The world began to look soft and muzzy.

We were scraping the last crumbs off our plates when a shadow fell over the table and I looked up into a face that sent a chill through me.

Patrick seemed to flinch too, a split second’s doubt clouding his face.

The man had wide-set eyes, a broad nose, pale skin.

‘I thought I’d seen the back of you,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Patrick. ‘I thought we had scared you off – a coward like you.’

The man was about fifty years old, balding, short and stocky. His face was red, but with weather, it looked like, rather than alcohol – it had that wind-roughened texture to it. He wore
jeans tucked into short leather boots and a dark green fleece zipped up to his chin.

Patrick’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He put it back down on his plate, wiped his hands with a napkin.

Slow, controlled movements.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t bullshit me like you think you can bullshit everyone else. I wonder whose boat you came round here on today?’ The man’s protruding eyes swivelled to look at me.
‘You can bet it wasn’t his own,’ he said.

I’d seen him before, I knew it.

But where?

Patrick wiped his hands again, took a sip of cider.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave us alone.’ He winked at me. The man took a step closer to our table.

‘Not until you get the message. You’re not wanted around here. I thought, everyone thought you wouldn’t have the nerve to come back.’

‘Give it a rest, mate.’

‘Don’t fucking call
me
mate.’ He took a step closer, so he was right behind Patrick now, his fists balled up. He didn’t look like someone who usually got into
fights; there was a restraint, a nervousness about him, that reminded me oddly of my father.

Patrick placed his napkin in front of him, and put his hands on the table, either side of his plate, as if in readiness to move quickly. But when he spoke his voice was calm.

‘I don’t have the foggiest what you’re on about. My girlfriend and I are just having a quiet drink. I’d appreciate a little space, thank you.’

‘Perhaps this will jog your memory . . .’ The man pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, a grainy photo, cut out of a newspaper. I couldn’t see it clearly, but caught a
laughing woman’s face, alongside an inset of a power-boat type vessel on a rough sea.

‘You got away with it, but we all know the truth. You’ll pay for it. You haven’t seen the last of me.’ At that point the short man’s voice cracked. ‘You
destroyed my family!’

People at the other tables in the restaurant were putting their knives and forks down, looking round at us.

‘I could have you done for slander,’ Patrick said in his best city-boy voice. ‘I’d watch what you say.’

‘You’re lucky you’re still putting food into that hole in your face . . .’ The man’s fist went back, his face reddening as he gathered himself awkwardly for a blow
he clearly wasn’t used to giving, and within a split second Patrick was standing up, his body tensed, his own arm retracting as if in preparation for a fight, his face hard, cruel, stony, the
way he had looked when he caught me looking at his childhood photos.