He sighs slowly, a long drawn out noise like a cold sea breeze, wind whistling through his remaining teeth, and then starts to refill his pipe. It’s a curious procedure because he only has the one arm. He has to kind of rest the pipe on the palm of his hand, while holding the little bag of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger, and take the tobacco out with his remaining fingers. I think about telling him it would probably be easier if he held the pipe in his mouth, but. No.
'Sailing is it?'
'Yes. My friend has a yacht. We just fancied a day mucking about on the sea.'
'Mucking about on the sea!'
'Yes,' I say, uncertainly, 'mucking about on the sea.'
I can’t help feeling I've said something horribly wrong, committed some dreadful faux pas. I just wish that I could take it back and start this whole conversation again. I know he looks at me as if I'm some spoilt, airy-fairy land-lover, when that's not true at all. It shouldn't be this way. I was brought up by the sea. My grandfather was a fisherman. My grandfather fished his whole life. My Grandfather drowned at sea.
It was never something that affected me though, I don't have any traumatic childhood stories or anything, it was just something my Granny talked about as she stuffed us full of scones. Like the war or how many sweets you used to get for a penny. That kind of thing. The photographs of fishing boats, wedding photos, a hard faced young man, my own age now, they didn’t mean anything. You know what it's like, old people wittering on. Not listening, we’d drop crumbs on the carpet and wait for our parents to come and take us home. Sometimes my Granny would cry as she remembered the night his boat went down and we’d laugh at her, thinking it was some sort of game. Old people don’t cry, they make scones. Look Sarah, Granny’s pretending to cry. Boo-hoo. Boo-hoo.
I was only eight when she died.
From somewhere comes the sound of a horn, a low, dull noise echoing round the bay, hanging there. A seagull lands on the concrete in front of us and struts imperiously past. It cocks its head and looks straight at me for a second, before spreading its grey-white wings and flying out towards the ocean. And in that moment it strikes me that this man next to me could easily have been my grandfather, could so easily have been the man who was killed years before I was born, the man I've only seen in photographs. A part of my history I’ve never known. I want to say this to him, but I don’t know how and, instead, I do what I always do in these situations.
I don't say anything.
I just stare across the harbour, trying to share the moment with him. Two people occupying the same space and time. I wish that there was something I could say to bridge the gap in age and experience between us, but there’s nothing, there’s no connection. I think about my grandfather, think of all his life amounted to, a lifetime's work. An old woman telling stories to a couple of kids, spoilt brats really. And now that's gone too. Not even the stories left, just a few old photos that sit in a drawer, no-one knowing when they were taken. Not even a trace. I look across at the old man next to me and wonder if he knew...
And then there's a little electronic jingle, the theme from Titanic in five notes, and I go for the phone.
'Hello?'
…
‘Tony! Yeah, about time!’
…
‘Yeah.’
…
‘Yeah I’ve been here ten minutes already.’
…
‘Right.’
…
‘Oh are you? Ok then.’
…
I press End-Call and clip the little Nokia back on to my belt.
‘Tony.’ I say and roll my eyes skyward. Uncle Albert looks at me quizzically. Stupid thing to say.
And within a few seconds I see the grey BMW careering down the hill, screeching round the corner and towards the car park. Silently, I watch as he parks his car, bleeps it shut and starts walking across, looking curiously at my new-found friend. I just pray he doesn't make some sarcastic comment. I don't think I could stand it. Tony looks so out of place here, strutting along, jangling his keys, with his too-flash car and his ultra-expensive casual clothes. The smell of old rope and rotting lobster creels. Shiny white yachts bobbing next to decaying trawlers. But then again maybe it's old Uncle Albert who’s out of place. Maybe it’s him who doesn’t belong here anymore.
‘Hi Mark, Sorry I'm late. You ready to go?’
‘Yes.’ I say quickly. I turn back to Albert.
'It was nice talking to you.' I say with as much sincerity as I can. Painstakingly. To be sure the words don’t come out as sarcasm. But he just snorts and starts refilling his pipe. I go to say something else, but can't think of anything and we start walking away, across towards the Marina.
'Who's your friend?'
'Just some guy.' I mutter, dreading the comment that's bound to come. 'And don't go slagging him off just because he looks funny. Ok?'
'Slag him off? Me? I wouldn't do that. Anyway, I think he looks good, I really do. I'd give my right arm to look like that guy.'
'Which way is the boat?' I ask, not acknowledging his little comment.
'It's in the shed, we'll have to wheel it out first.' He walks over to the side of the harbour, and stands there, arms-outstretched, taking in the brine. Typical city-slicker on a day out. ‘What a beautiful day! God. There's nothing quite like a day on the sea is there?'
'No,' I say quietly, 'there isn't.'
