Chapter 35
The divorce application came via email on the first Friday of the month.
It was as unemotional as Gemma’s social services file, which in this case was a good thing.
All she had to do was read it over and sign it.
The lawyer she’d found via a friend of Timothy’s was a charming man in his sixties who, somewhere along the way, had abandoned the formalities of suits in favour of golfing attire.
Gemma did what she had to do as quickly as possible so she could get on with her life, without Adam.
Yet even though she was trying to be stoic, she still felt sad. There was nothing pleasant about your marriage ending, even if you knew it was for the best. It was the finality of it and the loss of what could have been. She gave in to the sorrow and cried until the tears dried up.
Then she updated her friends and family, who were all champagne-emoji supportive, and then announced the news on The Mudlarkers’ Club WhatsApp chat.
She knew the mudlarkers would lift her mood as much as her older friends did and they didn’t disappoint.
Laila kept her response simple with a single fist-pump emoji, Timothy said Thinking of you, and Nick sent her a video clip of Taylor Swift’s song, “We are never ever getting back together”, which made her smile.
A long text came in from Phyllida about how this was a new chapter for Gemma and how she was going to get through it and thrive.
It was like Phyllida had amalgamated all the positive messages and reels Gemma had sent her recently and packaged it into one.
On Saturday, Gemma needed a diversion and decided to try her luck mudlarking in West London at the Hammersmith part of the river.
Grey cloud slung low like a tarpaulin and the traffic was busier than usual.
She headed to Hammersmith Bridge, which was jostling with cyclists and joggers, and she scrambled down the riverbank, flattening weeds and taking care of her footing when she got to the mud.
Two large mallard ducks glanced her way but seemed unperturbed by her arrival.
For the first half an hour, Gemma found nothing but some colourful pebbles polished smooth by the tide.
She turned them over and admired their shiny gloss before throwing them back into the water.
She didn’t keep stones or fossils. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate or like them; it was more because she felt that everything that was formed by nature should stay in the river and, for practical reasons, she only had a limited amount of storage space at home.
Gemma stood up to stretch her back. She cast her gaze across the river.
In the distance, sun rays cut through a dark rain cloud and a faint rainbow cupped the sky.
Further west, near three wooden boats, a man had set up an easel and was painting.
Closer by, a small clique of seagulls settled in the water, floating like rubber ducks in a bath.
Then, only about a metre away, something glinted.
It was probably nothing. A silver ring-top from a can or a fifty-pence coin. Still, she couldn’t ignore it.
Wedged between two mossy stones was a ring.
Gemma picked it up. It was a simple gold band with a circular pale-blue gemstone edged in gold.
It wasn’t old or fancy, but it was striking.
Was it a real gem or coloured glass, gold plate or solid gold?
She tried it on. It slid easily onto the fourth finger of her right hand.
It needed a gentle wash in mild detergent but otherwise it was in perfect condition.
Whose was it and why was it on the foreshore? Had its owner lost it, or had they purposely discarded it from heartbreak or anger after the end of a relationship?
Gemma extended her arm and flexed her hand to admire the ring.
The delicate, semi-translucent colour of the stone reminded her of a summer evening sky, and its gold, the sun.
She did the same with her left hand. The small diamond in her engagement ring may have sparkled brighter, yet it seemed blemished somehow.
It had lost its meaning and its relevance.
Suddenly and with surprising clarity, Gemma realised that she no longer felt anything for it at all.
She walked with purpose down to the shoreline.
With the water lapping over her wellies, she pulled off the engagement ring and threw it forcefully into the river.
It didn’t go as far as she’d have liked, but it went far enough.
It plopped unceremoniously into the water and quietly disappeared.
She imagined her mudlarking friends cheering her on and Nick giving her a fist-pump in person.
Goodbye, old life. Goodbye, marriage. Goodbye, Adam.
Gemma kept the newly found ring on her finger.
As she returned to the boat ramp and her belongings, she thought about the cycle of life.
How it wasn’t just about when someone dies, another is born, it’s also when a discarded object, unwanted and unloved, is discovered and then wanted and loved all over again.
Gemma had given to the river in exchange for what she had taken.
She was making a new story for herself and her ring.
Having originally symbolised her commitment to Adam, it now represented her allegiance to the river.
She was intrinsically linked to the Thames, its history and its future.
Who would eventually find her jewellery and what would they wonder about its owner?
It was difficult to concentrate after that. All Gemma could think about was how full of strength she felt after having given her engagement ring to the Thames, to let the river decide where its fate lay. She felt a sense of release. A sense of freedom. She was Gemma Hudson, single, proud, strong.
Later, when Gemma was cleaning her new ring, Phyllida messaged on the WhatsApp group chat.
Good news, mudlarkers! Although historian Megan O’Connor is unable to give us a talk at the moment, we have another contender.
, I know, but Professor Rosie Simpson is free next Friday.
She is an archaeological scientist and an expert in glass, and one of my son’s lecturers.
She promises to bring the past to life and, according to Samuel, she didn’t need much persuasion.
Supposedly, academics are as keen for publicity and social media followers as the rest of us.
She also, he says, likes the sound of her own voice.
But who knows? Maybe Samuel is being churlish because she gave him a low essay mark. Who’s keen?
Gemma was definitely up for it because it sounded interesting and, she didn’t have anything else on.
So was Nick (probably for the same reasons).
Timothy wanted to come but was still getting fatigued and didn’t think he was ready for an evening out, to which everyone expressed their sympathies.
Laila was a maybe, but Gemma suspected that was only because she wanted to feign a typical teenage non-plussed attitude.
Phyllida seemed so excited that she’d have gone on her own if no one else had been keen. She immediately sent an invite: Six p.m. at The Anchor pub, Bankside. We’ll start off with our usual meeting, followed by the professor at seven-thirty.
Immediately after that, Nick messaged Gemma.
Sorry for the radio silence. Things got busy and the low tides at Vauxhall haven’t been user friendly.
If you still want to mudlark, there’s a low tide on Saturday seventeenth.
Sunset starts at seven when the tide will be at its lowest. But that’s all right, isn’t it?
You’ve got a headtorch and I can buy one. How about it?
Gemma didn’t hesitate. Wonderful. Looking forward to it, she replied. She suspected that Nick was now feeling how she did when Adam left, alone and empty. A shared mudlark was just what he needed.
Let’s meet at five at MI6. I like saying that! Feel like James Bond. But it’s true, the best beach access is right next to the building.