The Guest Mug

Roscoe stopped at the head of Morrow’s boarding access and waited for Veda to tell him where to put his foot.

It pleased her more than an exhibition of confidence would have.

“Here. Hold that. Take your time.”

He came aboard wearing the sensible shoes she had mentioned, accepted the flotation vest she gave him and listened while she explained the small working deck. Morrow was securely alongside after the morning’s work, machinery off, everything stowed. Arden had stayed to finish the checks and was packing her bag.

“No hidden talent for fishing?” Arden asked him.

“None.”

“Excellent. Saves time.”

Veda grinned. The two of them shook hands without making the gesture into a negotiation over her life. Arden told Veda where she had put the spare key to the locker, said she would see her on Monday and went ashore.

Roscoe stood where Veda had asked him to stand. “She’s going to be difficult to replace.”

“Yes.”

He looked towards her, then let the subject rest. She wanted him to see the boat without feeling obliged to say something consoling over every part of it.

She showed him the wheelhouse. At eight point two metres, Morrow did not contain the spacious romantic interior a land-based imagination might have supplied. The space was practical, worn, and arranged around work. A plain mug sat in the holder by the chart shelf; a second, brought from home for today, waited beside the flask.

“You brought a guest mug,” he said.

“I don’t make everyone drink from a fuel filter.”

“I hadn’t made assumptions.”

“You did look relieved.”

He accepted tea, then asked before sitting. She pointed to the place she had cleared.

The tide made the mooring lines take the boat’s small movements. Roscoe felt it and looked up. She watched him learn the room through his feet.

“It’s never still,” he said.

“No.”

“Even tied up.”

“Especially when you’re trying to write something legibly.”

He looked at the pencil beside the logbook and smiled. She liked him here. She had feared that his presence would make her see the boat through an imagined judgement, as if every worn edge required an apology. Instead it made the little space newly available to her own affection.

She pointed out the lower wheelhouse paint that needed attention. He asked whether she wanted advice, and she laughed.

“Not a furniture treatment.”

“I was going to suggest buying paint.”

“Radical.”

He did not touch controls or lift a hatch to demonstrate interest. When she described the sound Morrow made settling into a turn, he remembered the restaurant.

“Before the sun gets onto the marks,” he said.

She looked at him.

“You remembered that.”

“Yes.”

She turned towards the window because the plainness of the answer made her eyes sting. He had kept something she told him before either of them knew how difficult keeping each other would be.

“You won’t hear it today,” she said. “Different boat.”

“I came to hear you tell me.”

She put down her mug and touched his hand. They stayed like that for a moment, neither of them turning the boat into somewhere it wasn’t safe or sensible to forget themselves.

Then she finished securing everything and took him ashore.

· · ·Scene break

The passenger launch had seats along both sides and a skipper who gave the same safety instructions to everyone, including Veda. She listened. Roscoe watched her listen and did not make a joke about being off duty.

They took a place with a clear view. When the launch moved out, the quay loosened its familiar arrangement into a row of buildings, then a line. Veda felt the impulse to look towards her own wheelhouse and found it absurdly pleasant not to be responsible for the next movement.

Roscoe leaned close enough to hear without making her raise her voice.

“Which way?”

She pointed. “The narrowing there. Then the outer bend. We won’t go all the way to my grounds on this trip.”

He nodded. The launch’s route was its own, and she had bought a view, not authority to alter it.

The water beyond the sheltered reach carried a brighter pattern of light. Veda showed him where the reeds ended and the lower bank changed, where the exposed margin would appear on a different tide. She did not point at a single tuft of grass and demand that he derive a policy from it.

“There,” she said as the familiar buoy came into view.

“The unnecessary question?”

“Yes.”

Roscoe studied it solemnly. “I see what you mean. It looks as though it wants clarification about parking.”

She laughed so suddenly that another passenger looked round. Roscoe smiled at her with open satisfaction.

Then, beyond the joke, the channel widened. Veda fell quiet.

The launch moved through a place she knew from labour, and for a minute she knew it through pleasure alone. The light ran off the water in little broken pieces. Somewhere above the engine she heard a bird she could not see. She turned towards it automatically.

Roscoe was watching her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“You don’t look as though you’re waiting to get somewhere else.”

She rested her forearms on the rail, keeping her hands clear. “I’m not.”

He stood beside her without adding a lesson. When she glanced at him again, he was looking outward, trying to see the thing she loved without requiring it to belong to him in the same way.

On the return, she bought two coffees from the flask service and discovered that his was stronger than he liked. He drank it anyway until she offered to swap. She took the bitter cup with satisfaction.

“You could have said.”

“I was enjoying being brought coffee.”

She leaned her shoulder against his. “You can enjoy it and complain.”

“A broad principle?”

“Under consideration.”

He laughed. She felt it through the contact between them.

· · ·Scene break

Ashore, they walked away from the landing before stopping by the wall. The boat had not converted him. She could tell from the care in his face that he knew she would be watching for the wrong kind of revelation.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

“That I knew the work was skilled. I didn’t understand how much of it lives in the place. Or how happy you are when you stop defending it.”

She looked out across the water.

“I can’t say I understand all of it after an afternoon,” he added.

“Good.”

“I still want the recovery area.”

“I know.”

“I also know that asking you to change isn’t asking you to move a desk.”

Her throat tightened. It was not enough to remove the argument. It was enough to remove a particular loneliness inside it.

“That’s what I wanted you to see.”

He took a breath. “Thank you for showing me.”

She turned towards him. The wind had disordered his hair; there was a crease on his cheek from the collar of his coat. He was a man who had made a mistake, corrected it at some cost, and come back without a triumph to offer. She wanted him with a tenderness that had outgrown the first sharp attraction and carried all of it inside.

“Come home with me,” she said.

He searched her face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I don’t mean because you said the right thing by the wall.”

“I didn’t think—”

“I know. I want to say it. I’ve missed your hands. I’ve missed talking in the kitchen when I don’t have to be impressive. I want you in my bed again.”

He stepped nearer, then waited. She put her arms around him and rested her cheek against his chest, feeling his breath move beneath it.

“I’ve missed you too,” he said.

They stood there without kissing for a moment. She liked the lack of hurry. They had an evening ahead, and she had chosen it with more knowledge than she had possessed the first time.

At her door, she took out her key while he waited beside her. The lock caught, as it sometimes did. She turned it back a fraction, tried again and felt it give.

Roscoe smiled when she looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing about the lock. I promise.”

“Good. Come in.”