Chapter 6
Gemma woke up the next morning with a mild hangover to add to her heartache.
Yet she was pleased there was going to be a low tide after work.
She’d be able to get in a good two or three hours of mudlarking while it was still light.
It wasn’t always easy to get the timings of the tides to fit around her job and everyday life.
Although one bonus of now being on her own was that she was able to go out more frequently and spontaneously than when Adam was around.
At least once or twice a week was her ideal.
That evening, the river near Richmond looked almost as blue as the sky and the plants lining the path were tinged in gold.
It was the perfect soft, angled light which made it easier to spot objects that might otherwise be invisible under harsher, more direct sunlight.
The foreshore seemed glowing with promise.
Gemma closed her eyes and listened to the gentle sound of the water. Its lapping was rhythmic and soothing.
She took her time walking the length of the beach where the water met the mud and the stones by the waterline were slippery from the tide.
Even with experience at ‘getting her eye in’, as mudlarkers like to say, she was still amazed by how much could be found washed up by the tide.
She spotted a hypodermic needle, dark-brown shards from a twentieth-century broken beer bottle, three chalk-white clay pipe stems and a little glass apothecary bottle.
Nothing noteworthy or that she hadn’t seen before.
Not that she minded. It was pleasurable enough to be able to forget what was going on in her life and to soak up the atmosphere. Just to be alone with Mother Nature.
Up ahead a wave rushed in and rushed out to reveal a small china vase, sitting incongruously on top of the mud.
Gemma walked over to it and picked it up.
It was sweet and not very old, but she didn’t want it.
She returned it to the shoreline, wedging it into the mud.
She stood up and breathed in the crisp spring air tinged with the smell of the riverbed.
After a few slow inhales and exhales, she turned her gaze back to the mud.
That’s when she spotted something gold submerged in the silt, its curved corner being repeatedly cleaned as the water washed over it.
It was glinting so brightly that her heart skipped a beat.
Gold was the ultimate treasure. It’s what larkers and metal detectorists dream of finding, and the older, the better.
Gemma pulled it out of the mud. It was a watch.
Not old. Vintage at a push. Disappointingly, she suspected it was fake, because Adam had a replica Rolex once and, like this one, there was no serial number on the back.
Of all the things she could have found, it had to be something that reminded her of Adam.
Even by the river she couldn’t escape him.
Should she leave the watch for someone else to find or take it with her to dispose of?
Either way, as far as she was concerned it was rubbish and a sham. Much like her marriage.
Feeling huffy and sad and sorry for herself, she sat on a dry area of shingle. She lay back on her elbows and gazed at the vast expanse of sky, which looked like a giant piece of Wedgwood pottery, Georgian blue with white porcelain clouds. Tears sprung from a seemingly never-ending well of them.
‘Are you all right?’
Gemma startled. Two legs in beige slacks, with brogues that shone like polished copper, were standing next to her. She recognised the voice.
‘Hi, Timothy,’ she said, wiping her eyes and trying to sound cheerful. ‘I’m cloud spotting.’ She pointed skywards, hoping to distract him from seeing that she’d been crying.
‘You can’t fool me,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘The clouds are moving far too quickly to enable any true spotting.’
Timothy was seventy-six, ‘or thereabouts’ as he once told her, and lived on one of the houseboats that lined the Thames, not far from where Gemma lived.
She was loosely acquainted with him because on the days he volunteered at the British Museum he caught the same train to Vauxhall as she did to work.
He had an angular face softened by glasses and doe-like eyes which made him look kind and gentle.
‘What are you doing down this end of the river?’ she asked.
‘Visiting a friend. I saw you lying down and thought you might have fallen.’
She sat up. ‘I’m just having a moment.’
‘Don’t get up on my behalf,’ he said. ‘Although if you do, I’ll hang around. Just in case. If you’re anything like me, you’ll get dizzy if you stand too quickly.’
‘Thanks, but I’m rather mucky. I wouldn’t touch these gloves if I were you. The Thames may be pretty clean nowadays but that doesn’t mean it’s pollution-free.’
‘True. Years ago, a friend of a friend was struck down with Weil’s disease. Nasty thing that. Comes from rat wee in the water. Have you found anything interesting?’ Timothy peered at the gravel around his feet.
‘Not today.’
‘Ah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘I used to mudlark, too, you know, until my wife needed more care.’ He looked wistful, then his face brightened.
‘I was a complete amateur, mind you, but I developed a particular interest in the World Wars. Finding bullets and lead balls became my thing. Now I’ve got a bad back.
That’s why museum volunteering is so good.
There’s no bending over. Especially if I only wear slip-ons. ’ He laughed.
Gemma became aware that she hadn’t been fully focused on what Timothy was saying, which was a shame because at any other time she would have enjoyed sharing stories about mudlarking.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Timothy asked again.
‘Uh-huh,’ she answered vaguely.
‘Well, enjoy your mudlarking and I’ll no doubt see you at the station on Monday.’
Gemma watched Timothy tread carefully in his smart shoes towards the footpath.
He turned to check on her. She waved. He waved, too, and disappeared down the street.
Except now that Timothy was gone, Gemma wanted him to come back.
The only socialising she’d done with him was on her commute, but he was a sweet man and good company. She sighed and got up.
She looked down at the gaudy gold watch next to her feet and for the first time ever, wished this was one item she had never found. She kicked it but it barely moved. Even here, it felt as if Adam was winning. Gemma wasn’t a competitive person but, in this instance, she decided it was game on.
Without bothering to remove her gloves, she gathered her things and hurried home as best she could in sludgy wellies, probably resembling, as Adam once disparagingly remarked, a trauma cleaner fleeing a garden crime scene.
Once home, she went to the chest of drawers in her bedroom and pulled out the sock she’d hidden.
It may have been out of sight, but it hadn’t been out of mind.
She’d thought it cute at the time but now the bananas, angled as they were into smiles, appeared to mock her.
She took it to the kitchen and got the scissors.
She held up the sock and cut off the toes.
Next, she went for the middle of the foot, then across the ankle.
Her mother was right. It felt good. With each snip her discontent dissipated.
She sliced and diced the bananas until they resembled a jigsaw puzzle, only this one couldn’t be pieced together again.
For a minute, Gemma gloated over her vengeful destruction.
But the feeling didn’t last. Too quickly, she felt unsatisfied and hollow. What’s more, she felt bad for the sock. It wasn’t its fault Adam had done Gemma wrong. It had been in perfectly good condition, too. What a waste. She gathered up the frayed pieces and threw them into the rubbish bin.
Thank goodness, this month was nearly over and very soon she could start a new one afresh. She went to find her journal and took it to the kitchen table. Carefully laying out her recent finds, she began to document them.
April Discoveries:
One Georgian button made from a brass alloy to look like silver.
Two heavy handmade iron nails, one of which has its maker’s mark stamped on the shaft.
A sheep’s jaw, which gave me such a fright because I thought it was human!
Two bottles: one a translucent green apothecary bottle, the other resembled a clear-glass test tube.
How I now feel more of a connection to the Thames than to my actual friends.
How sometimes the kindest people are those who are staring death in the face.
How violence (even in the form of scissors to a sock) is never the answer.
And how, now, my future is scarily unrecognisable.