Home Stretch: A Memoir

By Sue Watts

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This book triggers laughing out loud, turning to spinal shivers as the gripping drama of Alma and Will's stories unfolds.

A fascinating and emotional true-life story packaged in a fun filled holiday diary with detective elements. Discover how an uneasy truce between a mother and son is threatened when a visiting friend accidentally unlocks secrets that have poisoned their lives. Discover too how the visitor, Sue, draws on her own life experiences to help troubled friends come to terms with their harrowing past, on a paradoxically hilarious yet traumatic joint holiday.

Wefound much to admire in HomeStretch

Juliet Pickering, AP Watt & Co. Literary Agents, London

Lively and well written

Henry Dunow, Dunow, Carlson & Lerner Literary Agency, New York

very competent and compelling

Lee Brown, Assistant Editor,

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467005722

Sue Watts

Sue was born and raised in Melbourne Victoria moving to the country for a tree change some 35 years ago. Her working life was in welfare in the disability and youth sectors. Sue’s interests revolve around family and friends, now retired Sue has trained with her four-year-old Border Collie as therapy visitors for residents in the local Aged Care sector. Writing came later in Sue’s life first a short story winning a local competition and then this novel as a first publication.

Book preview

© 2009 Sue Watts. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 4/24/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-6883-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0572-2 (ebk)

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1 - First Impressions

2 - A Day For Hats

3 - The Moon and the Stars

4 - Back to Back

5 - The Butcher and the Baker

6 - The Dressing Gown

7 - Pistols at Dawn

8 - Home From Home

9 - Moma Mia

10 - Unravelling

About the Author

For

M

for ‘there and then’

‘Give me the boy until he is 7, and I will give you the man.’

The Jesuits / Sigmund Freud (attrib)

‘Experience is a powerful teacher, you learn, by God you learn’

C.S.Lewis

‘The distance between experience and true learning is reflection - to ensure the correct lesson is learnt!’

The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A huge ‘Cheers me dears’ to the main characters in this book (whose names have been altered to protect the innocent) for entrusting me with their story and allowing me to repeat their experiences. I am indebted to them for their frankness and am honoured to have been first to share their secrets.

Thanks too, to my own extraordinary mother, whose tough love shaped my emotional resilience to cope with the subject matter at hand, and to my father for instilling me with a value system that demanded I do something about what I heard.

I am grateful to Professor Larry Meacham, friend and mentor, for his enduring interest in my progress penning this work. His constant reminders of a desire to read it before he retired spurred me on to complete it (although I failed to meet his deadline). Once I had written all there was to tell, friends and colleagues Dr Clare Rigg and Sue McFadyen, both read the first draft. Their comments helped immensely in improving the story’s telling, as well as imbuing me with the confidence to dare dream it worthy of publication.

And of course there is my husband. His motivational technique for getting me to finish what I started was a refusal to read any of my writing until it appeared in published form. So here you are Honey - read it and weep! xxx

1

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

Standing quietly in the queue waiting to disembark the Naples to Ischia ferry, our convincing pose as two refined English women is shattered by some bloke bellowing at us from the quayside, Stick, get your arse over here! My friend Ria points him out, telling me that the man on the dock shouting obscenities at us is her brother. I hadn’t made the connection because up until this moment I was unaware Ria had a nickname. It’s only now that she tells me she’s been saddled with Stick since childhood, on account of her tall, overly slim figure, which her brother insists resembles a stick insect. Personally, I’ve always likened her to Olive Oyl, Popeye’s girlfriend, but would never dream of mentioning.

Will is loud and doesn’t modify his decibels at close range. Watch ya Stick, he booms in a broad Brummie accent, embracing Ria in a bear hug as she steps off the gangplank. He greets his niece Elly and nephew Jack with the same deafening enthusiasm, before focusing on me. I get more than a pleased to meet you pleasantry. He slaps me on the shoulder with such force it knocks me sideways, as he announces through a self-satisfied smile, You must be Killer!

I’m staggered (literally) at the force of the slap. He’s a giant of a man who appears not to know his own strength, and with me being a seven stone weakling I’m hard pressed to remain upright. Nobody’s ever called me Killer before and I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s getting at. Rather than attempt to fathom it out, I signal confusion in the form of a quizzical smile. Will greets this reaction with undisguised disappointment, dismissing me with a flick of his head as he trumpets to Ria, I thought you said she was clever!

I wish Ria wouldn’t do that. People expect me to be Alberta Einstein from the massive build-up she gives me. She puts me on a pedestal and unintentionally sets me up for a fall. At this precise moment I’m probably plummeting to the level of cretin in Will’s estimation, given the disparaging tone of his previous remark and the patronising manner in which he now proceeds to explain his joke. Kil-ler. You know, as in Kil-o-watts. That’s your name isn’t it, Sue Watts? he says, slowly enunciating each syllable.

A forced smile conceals chagrin until the nature of Will’s humour eventually permeates my dented pride. It’s a pity he settled on Killer when Mega (Watts) is an option, which in my opinion would be infinitely preferable. Then again, having just performed like a spent filament I should perhaps be grateful he doesn’t alter his choice to Forty Watts (dim).

As first impressions go, Will and I clearly haven’t got off to the greatest of starts. I’m not too worried by it. University taught me to avoid the formation of hard opinions, negative or positive, in the preliminary stage of an acquaintance if you want to get the true measure of a person. Put simply, it’s possible to take an instant liking to someone who later turns out to be a complete arsehole, and conversely, to shun someone who subsequently reveals themselves to be adorable. To prevent this adorable/arsehole confusion, I was taught to keep an open mind and be receptive to new, additional information that emerges as time rolls on. Since acquiring this knowledge I’ve endeavoured to avoid falling into the trap of making my mind up about anyone too soon, in whatever capacity and whichever walk of life I meet new people.

And believe me, I expect to meet a great many new people on this holiday. In fact, the only person I really know here is Ria. The rest of her relatives are strangers who have kindly consented to Ria bringing me along on their annual family holiday. Out of the whole gaggle of them I’ve only met Ria’s sister, Theresa, and their mother, Alma, once before very briefly. If I’m honest, I have to admit to being a tad apprehensive about holidaying with such a large group of people. Not that being in the company of strangers bothers me per-se. I guess it’s more to do with personal experience of large family gatherings tending to boil over at some point, no matter how loving they are, or how well they generally get on together. As my Mom would say, crowding breeds discontent.

I hardly speak a word during the journey from the harbour to the villa. No, I’m not sulking about the Killer incident. My muteness is the product of inability to break into the rapid-fire conversation between Ria and Will. They haven’t seen each other for over a month and there is plenty for them to catch up on, including the welfare of their children, details of our journey and highlights of the week Will has already spent in Ischia. Attempting to inject a word into the minuscule pauses they leave between each other speaking is futile, it simply can’t be done and is pointless trying.

Being squeezed out of the conversation leaves me free to gaze out of the car window, admiring the superb scenery. The island’s colourfulness was evident as it filled the horizon on the ferry crossing. Now, close up, the depth of colour is stunning. Shades of green and fuchsia made glorious by the brilliant Mediterranean sunshine. I’m jolted out of this David Bellamy like appreciation of the wonders of nature as Will jerks the car violently sideways in an attempt to avoid collision with a truck that’s hurtling towards us. It’s showing no sign of slowing down or pulling over.

The truck grinds noisily against the driver side of the car, causing sparks to fly from both its flanks as the passenger side simultaneously scrapes against a dry-stone wall. Incredibly, both drivers continue on their way as if nothing has happened. Astonishing. The whole thing renders me dumbstruck. Ria twists round in her seat to check on Jack. He’s totally unperturbed by the incident. I must look somewhat less nonchalant, because she finds it necessary to tell me that there’s nothing unusual about what’s happened. The roads are narrow and the islanders are not at all materialistic when it comes to their cars, so little bumps and scrapes occur frequently she informs me. This news does nothing to relax my nerves but does have the effect of focusing my attention firmly on the road.

It’s being a born again back seat driver that leads me to notice Will plucking a remote control handset off the dashboard as we approach a sharp bend in the road, just after entering the village of Buonapane. He points it at a large pair of wrought iron gates, explaining as he does so that there’s a definite knack to getting into the grounds of the villa unscathed. The timing has to be perfect to activate the mechanism for opening the gates, allowing us to drive straight in without bringing the car to a halt on the bend. Otherwise, there’s a risk that something will come careering around the corner, turning us into meatball material.

Maneuver accomplished, we find Alma waiting at the entrance to the complex when we pull onto the driveway. She doesn’t bat an eyelid at the condition of the car, despite one wing mirror hanging off its hinges and the shocking state of the paintwork. Even being asked to tug the doors open to let us out draws no remark. Ria steps out of the car and bends to kiss her, telling Alma, I didn’t expect you to be here Mom. I thought you’d be down at the restaurant.

No, no, I wanted to be here-a to welcome Susan, Alma replies, in a singsong Italian accent, all the time smiling in my direction.

That’s very sweet of you, thank-you, I say to Alma, trying hard not to let mixed feelings dislodge the smile she’s planted on my face. You see, on the one hand it’s really very touching that she’s put herself out on my account, but on the other, there’s a strong desire to tell her to call me Sue rather than Susan. Sounds picky I know, but for as long as I can remember I’ve had an intense dislike of being called Susan. The only person to ever call me that as a child was my mother when she was angry. When she was furious she’d include my middle name too. The name by which my mother addresses me still acts as a barometer, enabling me to gauge her mood towards me in an instant. Being called anything other than Sue still causes me to feel momentarily anxious and uncomfortable. What decides me against expressing my preference to Alma, however, is the earlier, less than congenial start to one relationship this holiday with Will. Desperate to avoid another, I choose to grin and bear it, at least for the time being.

Alma sweeps Elly from Ria’s arms, kissing her granddaughter on both cheeks and playfully rubbing noses with her, prior to resting the baby on a substantial hip. She turns and makes her way inside, beckoning to me, Come Susan, I show-a you your room. My son willa bring-a your suitcase. Following the waddling figure I’m provided with a whistle stop tour of the villa. This is-a your room Susan, she eventually tells me, opening the door onto a bright and airy double bedroom. Guiding me inside she says proudly, I hope-a you like-a the decorating. Ria and Theresa chose it.

I turn in a circle to admire the decor. They certainly have a flair for interior design, simple and tasteful, although I suspect the crucifix on the wall above the headboard to be their mother’s personal touch. I tell Alma I think the room is gorgeous and thank her for inviting me.

Where do you want this? asks Will from the doorway, indicating to my suitcase.

Just dump it on the bed for now, Ria instructs him.

Will obliges, causing the bedsprings to creak from the massive weight flung upon it, then he strides away down the hallway. Ria takes her mother by the arm, wheels her around and heads towards the door. From over her shoulder she tells me, We’ll unpack later when we get back from the beach. I’ll see you in the lounge in fifteen minutes. She tugs Alma out of the door, closing it behind them.

Hurriedly I master the shower and throw on some beachwear before going in search of the lounge. Ria has obviously done the same, but accomplished rather more. She doesn’t just look refreshed. She looks glamorous, draped in a sarong and bikini top. I don’t know how she managed it in such a short space of time but she’s also rigged Jack out in clean clothes and dressed Elly in a red polka-dot bathing costume and a matching sun-hat.

Jack tells me excitedly that his mother is going to buy him a snorkel and some flippers when we get to the beach. Ria is quick to remind him that he will only get them if he behaves himself. With that she picks up the baby and hurriedly starts shepherding us out of the villa and back into the car. She relieves me of my beach bag and throws it unceremoniously into the boot next to Elly’s buggy. Slamming the boot-lid shut she explains that she’s not hurrying for her own sake, it’s for Will. He’s anxious about having left his wife, Debby, and their two sons unaccompanied on the beach for so long, and wants to get back to them pronto. Two things flow through my mind on hearing this piece of information. First is a ching-ching of my Will-o-meter registering a thaw at discovering him to be a strong family man, which I always find endearing. The second is a fear that, since he’s now a driver in a hurry, the journey could be another white-knuckle ride.

My misgivings are justified. No sooner have we emerged from the driveway than a baker’s van clips the edge of the front bumper in his rush to get passed us. Alma makes no comment, she is completely unruffled by the incident. Her cool reaction has me believing that dodgems really is an everyday occurrence in this neck of the woods.

Now, whilst near death experiences fail to raise anyone’s temperature but mine, parking is an altogether different ball game. Will is visibly irritated when we pull up on the beach car park, having done a complete circuit of it and returned to the same point that he started. He thumps the steering wheel in a show of frustration. Alma and Ria share his sentiments, tut-tutting and shaking their heads like synchronised swimmers. Angrily Will grinds the car into gear and speeds around the car park for a second time, in reverse! I fail to see their problem. There’s no shortage of vacant spaces. In fact the only occupied spaces are those on the perimeter, beneath a netted canopy entwined with flowering bougainvillea. The entire mid section of the car park is devoid of vehicles, which I naively point out, only to be instantly informed that this is the cause of the problem. The occupation of all of the shaded spaces means there’s no alternative but to leave the car in the full glare of the baking sun. We’ll have burnt arses when we get back in this later, Will curses, pointing to the seats.

Will, donna use language like-a that! Alma scolds him, despite him being nearly fifty. Funny isn’t it how age never seems to be a disqualifying factor when it comes to mothers reprimanding their children?

Will shrugs his shoulders and tosses the car keys to Ria. He’ll see us later, he says, striding off in the direction of the beach to rejoin his wife and sons, taking Jack with him. Don’t you dare go in the water ‘til I get there Jack, Ria shouts after them, and Will, please make him keep his t-shirt on, I don’t want him looking like a radish all holiday.

Despite it being no great distance away, it takes the remainder of us an age to get to the beach. Ria stops every few yards along the way to chat to Moroccan pavement vendors, all of whom she seems to know by name. Without any hesitation she converses with them in Italian, and with such confidence it could be mistaken for her first language. When I comment on this to Alma she tells me she’s endeavoured to teach all of her children to speak Italian and Ria has been her star pupil. Though Alma refuses to claim all of the credit . Besides her tutelage, Ria also worked in Ischia for a couple of years after leaving school and it was during that time she perfected the language.

I wait patiently whilst Ria laughs with the stallholders as she inspects their wares, which she doesn’t hesitate in telling them she considers to be cheap and shoddy – Versace Patel I hear her quip to one vendor as she tugs at the dowdy sundress he attempts to interest her in. He appears to take no offence at her banter, smiling good-humouredly and still proffering her the dress as she walks on to the next trader. Maybe later, she eventually says to the last of them, taking hold of my arm and steering me towards a pathway leading to Maronti beach.

A short but treacherous incline later we reach the sea wall, stopping at a small restaurant overlooking the beach. It’s more a sort of cafe really, erected on stilts that are rooted in the sand some eight or nine feet below. Alma tells me her brother-in-law built the place when he was a young man and handed it on to his daughter, Donatella, when he retired, although it’s still very much a family business. It’s one of the reasons Alma likes to spend every summer in Ischia, so she can help out in the restaurant during its busiest period.

Inside the restaurant a band of relatives give out a huge chorus of welcome, ceasing serving activity to shower us with enough hugs and kisses to compete with a Roman orgy. Come to think of it, as they are all Italians, it’s probably an accurate description. Well, the Roman part at least. The kisses are not the least bit orgy like, being the continental two-cheek variety. I’m greeted enthusiastically with Ciao Susannah by four of Ria’s female cousins and then by their parents, who Ria introduces to me as aunt Ziaantonella, Alma’s sister, and uncle Ziaanthony. For someone in retirement Ziaanthony is remarkably fit. Having a mature Anthony Quinn like, rugged appearance, oozing sex appeal.

His daughter, Donatella, thrusts an ice cold bottle of beer into my hand. A pleasant enough gesture but completely wasted on me. I turn to pass it to Ria with the intention of asking her to politely return it, but Ria doesn’t wait for any instruction, or need any. She knows me well enough. Taking the bottle from me, Ria slaps it back into Donatella’s hand and rattles something off in Italian. Concerned glances flitter between them. I guess she’s told them about me not drinking alcohol. I bet they think I’m a recovering alcoholic don’t they? I jest to Ria. People often make that false assumption about me when I tell them I don’t drink. The reality is I neither like alcohol, nor need it. A taxi driver once summed up my attitude to alcohol perfectly when he said, ‘Life’s rich enough, you can get drunk on good company.’

No, they don’t think you’re an alcoholic, Ria reassures me, I’ve told them you’re a caffeine addict. Donatella’s asking how you like it, espresso, cappuccino, or a couple of lines straight from the tin with a straw?

A cappuccino please, I nod in Donatella’s direction, triggering a surreptitious exchange of glances between my hosts. It doesn’t take a linguist to interpret their body language. It unmistakeably announces that I’m a source of amusement.

They-a never met an English person before who donna drink, comes Alma’s explanation.

Well, not one who was old enough to walk, Ria chips in. They’ve got used to our lot throwing it down our necks and being unable to stay upright afterwards. They think all English people are the same.

Now, I’ve never been one for flag waving, but if my abstention from alcohol goes some way towards restoring a nation’s damaged reputation I’m not going to complain. Although a significant shift in their stereotyped thinking is highly unlikely, given the contra-evidence provided by Ria. She downs her bottle of beer in just a few gulps, walks casually behind the counter and helps herself to another from the fridge.

Alma dons a pinafore, signalling that the welcoming party is over, before disappearing through a doorway into the kitchen to help out behind the scenes in the restaurant. Ria leads the way through an exit reserved for customers as a quick route down to the beach. Stepping outside we are smacked by the fierce mid-day heat. It must be touching a hundred degrees. Ria leans over the wooden rails on the landing at the top of the staircase, surveying the beach below. It’s surprisingly orderly, with regimented rows of sun-loungers, fitted with canopies at one end for head shading. I scour the beach for Will and Jack to locate our encampment, assuming Ria to be doing the same. She is, in a roundabout fashion, by searching for yet another of her cousins.

Seppie is leaning against the sea wall at the far end of the beach when she spots him, an athletic, bare-chested, younger version of Ziaanthony. Ria makes an exaggerated wave as she calls over to him, Ciao Seppie. He returns her wave and bursts into sprint, arriving at the bottom of the staircase at the same time we do. Two other men, no more than boys really, are also quick to join us. They’re introduced as friends of the family, Alberto and Luigi, lifeguards at the beach, as is Seppie. All three of them treat us to another round of hugs and cheek brushing kisses.

This stretch of beach we’re standing on is owned by Seppie, Ria tells me, adding that he charges thirty thousand lira a day to hire a sun-lounger. Still unfamiliar with the currency it takes me a few seconds to convert the figure to sterling. It’s ten pounds! Assuming that to be my cue to pay, I rummage around in my bag to produce my purse and as a consequence get my hand slapped by Ria. Don’t be silly, put that away. We don’t have to pay, she tells me, Seppie lets us have our loungers for free. The only condition is we will have to move if paying customers want the ones we’re on.

Gratitude is slow to surface. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be happy with this arrangement, being the sort of person who can look a gift horse in the mouth with ease. I’d much rather pay my way and get exactly what I want, than settle for anything less. As it happens there’s no need for worry. Seppie looks after us admirably, leading us over to some loungers nearest to the water’s edge, taking a detour enroute for me to be introduced to Debby, Will’s wife. She’s considerably younger than her husband. I’d say by fifteen years at least. Her greeting is typically British. No kissing, just a warm ‘hello’ and a ‘wet fish’ limp handshake, accompanied by a look of surprise at my firm grip. Debby retrieves her hand and introduces me to their two young sons, Lee and James, who are busily digging a hole in the sand beside her. They’re both fair skinned with platinum blond hair, taking after their mother in appearance, possessing none of the hallmarks of their Italian ancestry.

Thank God there are no more people to meet. I’m truly exhausted, largely due to the heat but also from the early morning flight from England, then the waiting around in Naples for the ferry. It’s a genuine joy to arrive at my sun lounger knowing I can relax for the rest of the day. Poor Jack, who’s not a naturally patient child, is equally desperate to play in the sea. Ripping off his t-shirt and shorts, he discards them on the sand and darts into the water. Ria drags him straight back out again to coat him in sunscreen. He makes it plain that this treatment of him is about as welcome as a bacon butty at a bar mitzvah, and he prolongs his torment by struggling to free himself from his mother’s grip.

Whatever Ria is coating him with, factor fifty I think, it refuses to be absorbed, leaving Jack looking like a prototype of Casper the Ghost. Sod it, she says, eventually giving up on her efforts to make him look human again, you’ll just have to look like the abominable snowman. Before releasing him she gives Jack a stern lecture about not going out too far into the sea and staying where we can see him. I tell her there’s no risk of us being unable to see him, with all that lotion on he’d make a good beacon to guide the fishing boats home. It’s a shame, she says, that stuff’s water-proof. He’s going to look like that for the rest of the day.

At last, with Elly fast asleep under the canopy of her buggy, Ria and I peel down to our swimwear and settle back to relax and enjoy the sun. What’s that? she asks, craning her neck to get a look at the label on the jar of cream I’m applying to my face.

It’s Visible Difference by Elizabeth Arden, I reply, offering up the jar for inspection.

Is it any good?

I nod, It’s supposed to reduce wrinkles and make you look years younger.

Can I try some?

I hand her the jar and watch her scoop some out. As she smoothes it over her face she asks, Do you think if we put enough of this on we could look twenty-one again?

I doubt even plastic surgery could make us look that young again, I retort.

Ugh, I wouldn’t want plastic surgery! she says, Have you seen those women whose faces look like they’re trapped in a wind-tunnel, all stretched and Chinese eyed? Just in case I haven’t already got the picture, she imitates the look by dragging the skin on each side of her face back as far as it will go.

I can’t imagine anyone looking that bad, not even if they used a do-it-yourself kit, I titter.

You can do it yourself you know. There’s this adhesive tape that sticks in your hairline above the temples, then you drape your hair forward to conceal the tape. I’ve heard that Barbara Cartland used it.

Well that’s not much of a recommendation is it? I think I’ll stick with my face cream.

I wouldn’t use that word around here if I were you, Ria says, shaking her head in a warning.

What word? I ask, completely baffled.

F A C E, she spells out the letters, it means bliff in Italian. ‘Bliff’ is Ria’s own word for female genitalia.

You’re kidding! I exclaim.

No, honestly it is. Believe me, if anybody tells you that you’ve got a lovely face while you’re here you’ll know your swimsuit’s come adrift.

Plus it gives a whole new meaning to the expression don’t ever show your face around here again, I quip in reply.

We’re off! Ria and I rarely ever have a serious conversation. Whenever we get together our conversation soon slips into frivolity and we spend hours laughing. It’s chemistry. You know how some people have the capacity to act as a spark for your kindle, igniting a facet of personality that ordinarily lies dormant, yet, when in their company it surfaces from nowhere. Well, Ria is one of my sparks. She is able to activate my sense of humour and bring out my joker character. She’s better than any anti-depressant on the market.

Soon after our tête-à-tête degenerating in tone to its usual low base, two of the cousins come down from the restaurant, bringing with them an enormous plate of assorted pizza slices for us to share, plus a cappuccino for me and a beer for Ria. This is their break-time, Ria tells me, clearly envious of their lifestyle. I ask her to find out from her cousins how they force themselves back to work when their break is finished, knowing I’d find it extremely difficult myself. One of them gives a lengthy reply, at which they all laugh, especially at the point where she cups her bosom to produce a Wonderbra effect. The translation from Ria is that neither of the women enjoys working in the restaurant. They’re both thinking of applying for Luigi’s lifeguard position when he departs for National Service shortly, only they doubt they’ll get it because they lack the Pamela Anderson’s for it. I issue a belated chortle in appreciation of their joke while registering that comedic qualities obviously run in their family.

When they finish their break the cousins take Elly up to the restaurant with them. Ria tells me it’s so we can both go for a swim. They needn’t have bothered, I tell her, as I won’t be going swimming - I dislike the sea. Ria’s keen for me to explain why that’s so.

I honestly don’t know. I’ve never given it any thought. It’s not something that crops up very often, is my honest answer. Up until this moment I believed myself to have worked on all of my foibles on the various self-awareness courses I’ve attended as part of my training, but somehow the issue of swimming, or more precisely not swimming, has never arisen.

You should try to do something about that, Ria tells me, You never know, one of these days you might need to be able to swim, especially with all the boats we’ll be going on while we’re here. Some of them are right old wrecks. Wait ‘til you see what they bring out for the Saint Anna festival. Anything that floats gets put to sea. I’ve seen some boats sink, with all the drunken revellers still on board them.

Oh, that’s very reassuring! I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks.

You said you were looking forward to the festival.

I know I did, but that was at the time when you’d only mentioned moonlight and dancing and singing at sea. You didn’t say anything about going down with the bloody vessel.

You won’t have to go down on anything, she smirks, Seppie’s got a brand new boat and we’ll be on that. Anyway, even if you don’t need to swim to save your life, you should learn to do it for the exercise. It’s the best aerobic exercise there is going. Perhaps you just need to find the right teacher.