Ebb and Flow

EBB AND FLOW It had been high tide but now the river turned, obeying the call back to the sea, as it had done countless centuries before. Today there was no hurry. Autumn sun glinted on the ripples as it drifted lazily by. She sat on a bench and watched, in her mind looking back, remembering the river in all its moods. Sometimes, as today, at peace with itself, drifting slowly in the sunshine. But at others, agitated, unsure, perhaps struggling against stronger forces. And there were days when the river was excited, sweeping small craft and lesser objects before it, lapping over its banks and rushing through unprotected doorways. To her it was always interesting. She shifted her position on the slatted bench, the sun warm on her back. Behind her on the other side of the quay, people, mostly visitors, she thought, were peering into shop windows or emerging from doorways, their arms and bags full of fripperies, gifts to take home for families and friends. She remembered when the shops had been full of necessities, fish, fresh fruit, groceries, but two large supermarkets had changed all that. It was progress, she supposed, and wondered if her parents and grandparents had felt the same way about changes in their days. Her eyes focused on the two ships which had docked at high tide. Now they were busy unloading, their cargoes neatly stacked on the quayside, awaiting collection. She glanced up as a tall, well-built man approached, he was leaning heavily on a sturdy cane. “Mind if I sit?” His voice was deep and not of the local burr. She moved along the bench making room for him. “Please do.” She smiled her welcome. For a while they sat in companionable silence. “I used to row here,” he remarked casually. “I thought you looked an athlete,” she said. “Used to be,” he grimaced. “We won many trophies on this river.” “And on others too?” she prompted him. “We were a good team, but this is the river I remember best. You live here?” he asked, not really interested to know. “Years ago, not now. Just visiting,” she replied. He was silent for a while, then: “I remember the regattas,” he was reminiscing, half talking to himself. “And the dances afterwards – and the fair!” He laughed. “Do you remember the fair? Roundabouts of galloping horses, sliding on the mat?” “I remember,” she said. “They were fun.” “They were good times!” He spoke slowly now as if dredging his memory. “Once there was this girl, lovely she was, and interesting too. The fellows ribbed me for dancing with her so much. I wanted to see her home, but she had gone. Looked for her next day at the fair but . . .” the traffic behind them for a moment blotted out his voice. He said “But I’ve sometimes wondered.” She added, “What if? I think we all wonder about that.” He turned and looked across the road. “Ah, there’s my wife.” His ash cane helped him to his feet. “Nice meeting you,” he said. She watched him cross to where a cheerful woman waved a bag full of bright toys, to take home to grandchildren she supposed. For a while she sat there, not now watching the river, her mind recalling long ago events and people. How strange, she thought as, like him, she pictured the regattas and the dances. In her mind seeing again the tall young athlete who danced so well. And, as with him, she wondered “What if?”