A Ceremony of Innocence

A CEREMONY

OF INNOCENCE

By

Edmund J Gubbins

A CEREMONY

OF INNOCENCE

By

Edmund J Gubbins

Copyright 2012 by Eddie Gubbins

Smashwords Edition

First Published in 2009 by YouWriteOn.com

Rombuli Saga:

Book 1 The Teacher of the Rombuli

Book 2 The Return Of The Exiles

Book 3 The Prisoner Of Parison

Other books by the author:

Running After Maria

Brotherly Love

An Ordinary Life

Tales From The Sea

Chapter 1

Mark Brookes slowly awoke as the blue wash of light from the curtained window spread over his bed, sending defused brightness through his closed eyes as though a television had just been turned on. Unsuccessfully, he tried to sink back into the soft, warm arms of his dreams but his efforts were in vain as reality started to intrude upon his dozing. At first, as consciousness took over from sleep, he thought he was on his ship and he started to mentally get ready to face another watch on the bridge and plan the work for the crew during the coming day. As time passed and nobody came to awake him to get ready for his duties on the bridge of the ship, it came to him in a flash of inspiration that he was at home on leave and there was no pressing need for him to get out of bed. With a clear conscience, he could lie in bed, waking slowly to face the coming day. It was not long, however, before the noises from outside his room convinced him that there was no hope of more sleep that morning and he sighed heavily as he opened his eyes to greet the morning.

Muffled by the walls of his room, the sounds from the street outside his window intruded into his thoughts. The hiss of rain falling like a waterfall, the wind coming up the river rattling the bedroom window in its frame and moving the telephone wires against the gutter, these sounded much like the noises heard on a ship during a storm though without the creaking of the structure and the pounding vibration of the ship rising and falling into the waves. Superimposed on the sounds of the wind and rain, he identified the squeak of car windscreen wipers pushing desperately against the rain as it pounded on car windows and then the footsteps of people hurrying to get out of the downpour. These sounds could only be identified from passed memories of lying in his bed on any number of mornings like this, summoning up the energy to get out of bed. Then the noise entering his room really took off as the hammering of steel on steel started to add to the sounds of the rain, the passing cars and the hurrying people. Soon the flash of welding torches lit up the wall opposite his bed and all thought of sleep was completely vanquished.

Blast all this noise! Mark thought to himself, sitting up in bed and glancing angrily at the closed bedroom curtains. While away at sea, he had forgotten just how noisy living at home could be on a week day morning. The sound of the big machine, hungry for its daily feast of human energy, until satiated at the end of the day when it disgorges its hordes of human workers back out into the streets. Blast all the noise. My first day home after almost a year away and I cannot get to lie in bed and think about what I will do this day, Mark thought, shrugging his shoulders in resignation.

He looked around his bedroom, seeing again the familiar scene that hardly seemed to change from one holiday to the next. The wardrobe and matching chest of drawers which had been proudly purchased new some time ago. The mirror on the wall that at this distance distorted the image of the two single beds side by side, their black painted headboards pushed against the striped wallpapers. The carpet was fairly new and had been chosen carefully to blend in with all the other decorations in the room. This is the room that had been his while he was growing up and to which he returned when on leave, so familiar but in some ways alien unlike the set design of the cabins he inhabited while at sea.

Swinging his legs off the bed, Mark crossed his bedroom and drew back the curtains from the window letting in the dull light of an overcast day, the light filtered through the heavy overcast and the lashing rain. Immediately in front of his window was a large sign reading 'Brents Shipyard' painted white on a peeling green background.

I bet Mr. Brent does not have to rise so early, he thought sourly and then laughed. On the other hand, I expect he has been dead for years.

Turning back into the room, he walked slowly to the bathroom convinced now that it was time to get up and face the day. Studying his face in the mirror while he prepared to shave, he saw the weather beaten features topped with close cropped light brown hair which he saw every morning in his shaving mirror. Winking at his image, he shaved, showered and felt almost ready to face the world. Stretching his body to its full five feet ten, he drove the last lingering echoes of his sleep from his mind and went back into the bedroom to dress.

Shortly afterwards, dressed in an open neck shirt and jeans, he carefully negotiated the stairs which that morning appeared even more narrow and steep than he remembered. At the bottom, the light from the frosted glass in the front door illuminated a small hall and grudgingly seeped back along the corridor leading to the back of the house. With a smile, he remembered how, as children, he and his brother Jim had often played the game of standing in the hall and assessing who was outside the door waiting for somebody to answer the bell. From the distorted image in the glass, they would playfully judge whether it was a friend or an enemy waiting until their mother or father had ordered them to open the door. Immediately at the bottom of the stairs, a door opened into what his mother grandly called the lounge, further down the passage was the dining room and at the end, lost in gloom, the door to the kitchen.

Mark paused in his walk to the kitchen to look into the dining room, a place that to him always seemed to be stacked with furniture and to be dominated by brightly coloured wallpaper. A massive sideboard stood along one wall, a matching table and chairs arranged in the centre and a pair of soft armchairs flanking the fire. Filling one corner by the fireplace was a glass-fronted cabinet containing a display of china, while on all the flat surfaces were photographs in all shapes and sizes of frames. Where the subject matter of those photographs could be seen, their images charted the onward march of one family's history.

Children smiled bashfully out into space, slowly progressing in each photo from babies to toddlers, through school uniforms onwards to adulthood. Family groups at long forgotten weddings or squinting into the sun on holiday, rubbed shoulders with ancient grandparents. It struck Mark that in many houses round the world he had seen these sorts of photos in their frames, telling the passing of the years as one generation's children pass into parenthood and then into old age. These pictures are the monuments that mark the major events in family's life, births, marriages, christenings and sometimes deaths. It is at these times when people making up a family come together, try to forget for those few brief moments their mutual dislikes and to talk of happier times. It always seems a great pity, he thought, that these chronicles of human progress are often destroyed when the owner dies, thrown on the bonfires of clearing out. These collections of human endeavour vanish from the earth with only a few cases, usually of the rich and famous, where they are preserved. Collections laughed at by the younger generation but when possible carefully preserved. In past history it was only the rich who could afford to keep a record of the onward march of their generations by having portraits painted but now most families have this chance for one generation to talk to succeeding generations through these photographic records.

Shaking his head at such thoughts so early in the morning and when he had just come home on holiday, Mark opened the kitchen door and smiled in greeting at the small upright woman waiting for the kettle to boil.

Good morning Mum, he said, leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. What great weather to start my leave. I hope it isn't going to rain for long. When I heard I was coming home in June, I was hoping that I would have good weather for my holiday.

Joan Brookes looked up from the stove and returned the smile. Good morning Mark. Did you have a good nights sleep? I was worried that you would find the house cold after all the time you spend in hot places. His mother spoke quickly as though she had so much to say and yet little time to say what she wanted.

You worry too much Mum. I was perfectly all right last night. Let’s face it, I was so tired, I slept like a log. Is that coffee you are making?

Yes. I was going to bring it to your bedroom when it was ready but you seem to have got out of bed before I could bring to you. Go on through to the lounge and I will bring it through and we can have a chat. The paper is in there on the table.

After Joan had arranged the coffee cups on the table and poured a cup for her son, she sat down opposite Mark and said, What are your plans for today?

I was thinking of going into town and doing some shopping this morning though I am not so sure now having seen the rain. Besides, I'll have to check the car first. Before I left last time I asked Mr. Brown to turn the engine over when he heard from you I was coming on leave. If the car starts ok and I do go into town, I'll be home for lunch if that is ok by you. This afternoon I thought I'd lie around getting in your way and make a few phone calls to find out what some of my friends are doing tonight. Has Mr. Brown still got the keys to my car?

Joan answered in the affirmative and then proceeded to talk about all the recent local happenings. Mark listened with only half attention while he looked at the newspaper, drank his coffee and ate some toast. Thus they went through the companionable ritual which had grown up since he left home to go to sea but which they pursued when he came home on leave. His mother would talk most of the time and occasionally Mark would tell her about his life at sea. It had been like this for years and Mark felt at last that he was truly on leave once his mother started to speak.

His coffee and toast finished Mark kissed his mother and stepped straight out onto the pavement outside the front door. He cast a glance at the black streaked brick wall on the other side of the road, turned up his collar against the rain and hurried along the road in the direction of a row of shops. The bell above the door of Brown's Newsagents clanged as Mark went into the shop to find himself surrounded by shelves stacked to the ceiling with all kinds of packages.

Hello Mark, a bald, bespectacled man greeted him warmly from behind the counter. Your mother told me you would be home this week. How long will it be this time?

A couple of months or there a bouts. You can never be absolutely certain. It depends on what the shipping company decides, Mark replied. Have you got my car keys and how much do I owe you?

Two weeks is all. Your mother has paid the rest, the man answered consulting one of the numerous ledgers stored on a shelf behind the counter. He opened a locked glass fronted cabinet and handed Mark a set of keys. I had the mechanic out to look over the car last month as you requested. You will have to settle the account with them. Last Sunday I turned the engine over and it sounded all right to me though I am no expert. I expect it needs to be taken out for a drive.

Thanks, Mr. Brown. It is really kind of you to keep an eye on it for me while I am away at sea and not just leave it in the garage. Mark settled the bill and then grinned at Mr. Brown. Why don't you take it out for a run? I've told you before that my insurance would cover you while you are driving my car.

What! That big monster! No thanks. I would be scared rigid all the time I was out on the road. I'll stick with my Escort if you don't mind. Mr. Brown grinned in return as he replaced the ledger on the shelf.

Leaving the shop, Mark walked down an alleyway that ran between the buildings near the shop and opened out into a courtyard behind the newsagents. The courtyard was lined with double doors, obviously garages. Selecting the right key, Mark opened one of the sets of doors and stood staring into the garage. An E-Type Jaguar was revealed in the light streaming through the open door.

It had been a few years before, at a time when Mark had been home on leave when he had seen the advertisement for the car in the local paper. Rather hesitantly, he had gone to the address in the advert and inspected the car. Satisfied that it was in working order, he had bought it there and then. His mother had made her feelings well known by tut tutting furiously when she had seen the car outside their house, making it quite plain to Mark that she thought he would have been wiser to leave the money in the bank to earn interest. You never know when an emergency might occur, she had said in a resigned voice. His father had looked at the car open mouthed, ignored his wife and insisted on being taken for a ride straight away. You deserve a little luxury my son, was all his father said in response to Joan's admonition. To Mark, the thrill of driving the car, the look of envy on his friends faces when they saw him and the feeling that he should have something like this to compensate for all the times he was away at sea, overcame any glimmerings of conscience which his mothers remarks might have raised.

Once inside the garage Mark walked round the car to check the body work for any signs of rust, running his fingers lovingly over the bright red paint work as he did so.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Mark put the keys into the ignition and paused before trying to start the engine. The thought always crossed his mind at this point when he first got into the car after coming home on leave, of what he would have to do if, on turning the key, the engine refused to start. His whole plans for the day would have to be delayed while he arranged for the garage to come out and start it for him. Tentatively he turned the key and relief flooded through his mind as the garage was filled with a deep throated roar.

Mark drove slowly out of the alleyway into the rain, getting used to the feel of the car again after such a long time since he had last driven anything other than a ship. Water streamed off the windscreen, pushed away by the wipers but he had to concentrate hard to see properly through the smears formed by the accumulation of dust, wishing now that he was on the road that he had spent a little time to clean the windows before setting out.

The heavy rain and the low dark sky making every thing grey, causing the houses and the wall of the shipyard to appear even darker and drearier than usual. Mark was glad when he topped the hill above the river and began driving through the green of the park. Grass slopes, dotted here and there with clumps of trees and shrubs, dropped away to his left, the river visible through the branches. To his right, a small church stood back among the gravestones flanked by a well tended cricket square. The air up here always seems so much more pure than down by the shipyard, Mark thought, especially when it had been swept clean by rain.

The park soon gave way to more housing and the traffic began to increase as he negotiated his way onto the main road leading into town. On reaching the shopping area, Mark spotted a parking meter and stopped. He went into and out of several shops depositing packages in the car boot before driving to the car park of the Royal Oak public house, situated towards the end of the main road through town near the docks.

Inside the bar, Marks eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, a gloom hardly relieved by the dark oak panelling lining the walls, with the occasional murky painting of Tudor gentlemen adding a contrast. The furniture was dark oak benches and tables that further added to the dim light. As he waited for his drink to be poured, Mark looked around the room searching for any other customers he might know. He thought he was the only other person in the room until he made out the figure of a woman sitting all alone in one corner near the unlit fire. Her head was bent over a magazine lying on the table in front of her, brown hair falling over her face which hid her identity and a cigarette burning unnoticed in the ashtray at her elbow. There was something vaguely familiar in the way she sat and the way she pushed at her hair but without being able to see her face, Mark could not place her or decide where he had met her before. Idly he wondered to himself what a single woman was doing sitting in the bar alone at this hour of the morning. From the way she kept her head down over her magazine, it was obvious to Mark she was not waiting for somebody to join her. Indeed, he had not noticed her look up hopefully when he came into the bar that a girl waiting for somebody would have done.

The bar man interrupted his thoughts by rudely plonking his pint on the counter in front of him and asking for the money. After sarcastically thanking the bar man, Mark picked up his glass and walked across the room to join the woman.

Hi, he said putting his glass on the table and sitting opposite the woman on one of the wooden benches.

The woman looked up from her magazine with an expression of complete indifference making it quite plain that look that she was not interested in companionship. Frowning slightly, she looked hard at Mark and then smiled in recognition.

Mark Brookes! she exclaimed. Are you home on leave from your ship or have you finally settled down ashore? If you are on holiday, how long this time? She folded the magazine away in her bag and sat back against the wooden bench looking straight at Mark.

Mark looked at her closely, studying the brown hair that reached just to her shoulders, at her deep brown eyes, small nose and red lips. Sue Maunder! he exclaimed in turn smiling broadly. I didn't recognise you from over there by the bar. In answer to your questions, yes, I am still at sea and I will be home for about eight or nine weeks. How are you getting on these days? It must be nearly five years since I last saw you. That would be just after you graduated. Have you got a job or are you still living off your fathers ill gotten gains?

Sue laughed pleasantly, her laughter making her body ripple under her shirt and bringing back long forgotten memories to Mark. You don't change much do you? My father's gains, as you have always chosen to call them, are neither ill gotten or easy come by. He has always worked hard for his money and is working even longer hours now with the state of the industry. Seriously, you know I went to the States to do research?

Of course. I went back to sea soon after you graduated and by the time I came home again you had left. You were going to get your Ph D as I understand it from Bill. Then you were coming back home. From what our friends told me, you were always in the UK when I was away and we seemed to lose touch. It was Mark's turn to frown.

We did, didn't we, Sue remarked frowning in turn. Anyway, I got my Ph D, came back home for a while but then went back to the States again because there was a job there for me. I kept thinking of writing to you through your parents but never seemed to get round to it. Besides which, you never wrote to me! I always thought I would hear from you and then the time passed and I rather thought you must have been too busy.

Mark smiled vaguely, his eyes distant and unfocused and then shrugged his shoulders. There did not seem much point in writing at the time. I thought you were off to the States and out of my life for good once you had gone to the States. Besides, I am not one of the worlds best letter writers, you only have to ask my Mum about that.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes and gazed steadily at Mark. Well that’s as may be, though I remember your letters to me when you first went away and I was still in the UK. They were very well written, interesting and exciting and I always looked forward to them. It would have been nice to hear from you after I went to the States, even if just to know you were all right. Still this is not the time and place to harp on about your writing or not writing letters. After a while in the States, when my contract was up for renewal, I saw a post advertised at the University here in Porthampton and applied. They have appointed me to start in the autumn so I am home for a while at least.

What are you doing sitting in a pub all on your own looking as though the world has let you down? You should be full of joy. Back home, you have a job and it is summer. What more could you want? Mark said ignoring the hint of admonition in her voice at the fact that he had never written to her since she went to the United States.

Sue noted the way he avoided directly answering her hidden question about why he had not written but did not push her point. The car I bought when I arrived home a few days ago wasn't going right so I took it back to the garage to get it fixed. ' That will need a couple of days work, love ' said the grubby little mechanic, eyeing my body up and down all the time he was speaking to me. Sue shuddered at the memory. I came in here out of the rain while I bucked up the courage to get home by bus. The first week of my holiday and no car. Christ the next few days are going to be hell. Besides which, I was going to go to the Merry Fisherman tonight to meet some friends. There is no way I can get there by bus or taxi so I will have to phone somebody to give me a lift. Sue's face crumpled into a grimace at the thought of having to use public transport.

You haven't changed much either have you? Mark remarked grinning broadly. In one small sentence you make it sound like all working people should be servile to you and that public transport is only for your toiling masses not to be touched by yer average upper class dolly bird.

I didn't mean to sound like that, Sue protested but stopped talking when Mark held up his hand.

I was only joking though anybody would think you did not have any legs. Don't worry your pretty little head Sue Maunder. Like the real gentleman I am, I'll give you a lift home when you are ready to leave the pub. Come on. Drink up and I will buy you another. After that you can tell me all about your time in the States and about this job at Porthampton University.

When Mark returned from the bar and reseated himself opposite Sue, she frowned and then asked, Are you married yet?

Mark's eyes opened wide in mock innocence. What makes you ask such a question and in such a blunt manner?

I suppose it is because I have just returned home after being away for a few years. Sue replied seriously. I had a few letters from my friends while I was away but I have found since I arrived home, many of the old crowd are married or at least living seriously with a partner. It has become almost a habit of mine now to ask about their relationships as soon as I meet somebody I haven't seen for a long time.

No. I'm not married or living with another woman. It must be going away to sea and never being in one place long enough to get round to thinking of ever getting married. On the other hand, it could be that I have not met the right person yet. Mark grinned as he said this.

Their conversation soon turned away from the subject of their friends and marriage and started to wander back and forwards across the years since they had last talked to each other. At last they had the opportunity to fill in the gaps in their knowledge of what had been happening to the other. Sue talked about her time in California, the people she had met and the research she had undertaken. She admitted that after a time, strange, as this may seem, she had become homesick for England and begun searching for a job. She told him of her pleasure when a post had become vacant at Porthampton University and of her joy when she had been appointed. The timing of the finish of her contract in the States and her starting in Porthampton had meant that she had two months holiday in which to settle back into her former life. While packing her things and on the flight back to the U.K., she had found herself both excited and apprehensive at the thought of returning home, especially of living with her parents again. She began to question whether the decision was the right one. It had been written many times in papers and books she had read that one should never go back. Things are never the same when one goes back, she had read and been told by many of her friends in San Francisco. The dream is never the same as the reality.

She had spent the last few days after arriving home, contacting as many of her old friends as possible and had arranged for the get together that night in the Merry Fisherman. Now, without a car, Sue admitted that doubts about the whole idea of returning home had once more come to the surface.

Mark listened to her story and then told her about his life at sea, especially the funny side of seafaring. Soon they were laughing, ignoring the looks of the people around them as the bar started to fill with the lunch time crowd. With a sigh, Sue looked at her watch and said it was time to go home because she had promised her mother she would be home for lunch.

When Mark stopped the car outside her house that stood back from the road in it's own grounds, they were still laughing and talking. Coming in for lunch? Sue asked turning in her seat. Mummy won't mind, in fact she would be glad to see you and she can always find something to eat.

No Sue, not today. I promised my mother I would be home and it would not be fair to let her down because I only arrived home yesterday and she is expecting me for lunch. Mark looked longingly at the swell of her breasts through the gap in her unzipped coat.

OK, thanks for the lift, Sue said getting out of the car,

I could pick you up at about eight this evening and take you to the Merry Fisherman, Mark said before she had a chance to go.

Sue looked back through the open door of the car, her face creased with suppressed laughter. I thought you were never going to ask. I didn't like to suggest it because you didn't say what you were going to do tonight. I'll be ready about eight and come into the drive like everybody else when you come to pick me up. Sue shut the car door quickly and walked up the drive to her house, humming to herself as she went. The day that had started badly, got worse during the morning, was now, to Sue, definitely getting better.

Mark drove away from Sue's house through the leafy suburbs of Porthampton deep in thought about his unexpected meeting with Sue in the Royal Oak. To Mark it had been a strange coincidence meeting Sue, unplanned after all the years they had been apart and even more strange when he thought about the way they had soon fallen into relaxed conversation as though they had been seeing each other regularly. He smiled to himself when his thoughts turned to their early meetings.

It had all started over ten years before, one night at Mark's school. The Boys Grammar School and the Girls Grammar School in Porthampton were separated by a few acres of parkland and in the main maintained their separate existences. That is, except for the sixth forms that joined together for subjects which did not attract enough pupils from one school and for some joint activities in the evenings. One of these joint ventures was a debating society which met in the sixth form rooms of one of the schools once a month to discuss a topical subject.

On one of these evenings Mark had been asked to lead the argument for a discussion on trade union rights. After this length of time, he could not remember the exact words of the motion, only that it was his task to defend workers rights to take part in trade union solidarity. With a single mindedness that surprised even his friends, Mark had flung himself into this task of researching the subject. While not neglecting his other work, he had spent much of his spare time in the library taking notes, had quizzed his father and his father's friends, all active in trades union circles, for their opinions and between lessons, spent time setting out his arguments.

He was in the school library, sitting at one of the writing desks set under a window overlooking the park one lunchtime, when he had been greeted by Mr. Jones, the economics teacher. In some strange way that surmounted their natural differences in both background and nature, Mark and Mr. Jones had grown to like each other. On many occasions they had carried on their discussions after a lesson and the other pupils and teachers had got used to the sight of these two people, Mr. Jones thin and stooped, Mark broad shouldered and upright, walking along a corridor oblivious in their mutual conversation to what was going on a round them.

Hello Brookes, Mr. Jones said as he sat on the edge of the table and turned the pages of a book Mark was consulting. How are your preparations going for the debate next week?

Very well Mr. Jones, Mark answered smiling at the schoolmaster. I'm finishing off my speech now.

Mr. Jones smiled back, shaking his head at the same time. I admire your confident tone Brookes. You have picked an almost impossible subject for your first leading role in a debate, I must say. Most of the audience are going to be at the best agnostic before you even start. Your main problem is going to be to break through the wall of disbelief which will greet most of what you say. Have you thought about how you are going to cope with that?

Yes, I have been thinking about that all the time I have been preparing my paper. I have thought long and hard about how I am going to get the rest of the boys and girls on my side, Mark replied grimacing at the thought of all those hostile faces staring at him from the body of the hall. The only strategy I can come up with is to be so logical they will find it hard to refute my point of view. By doing that, I hope to at least plant the seeds of doubt in their minds and then they might start listening to what I am saying. In that way I think I will pick up a few votes from the hall.

Mr. Jones shook his head. Logical as you can make the argument, I doubt if that will be enough. He looked at his watch and stood up. I must be off to prepare for my next lesson. One piece of advice I can give you though whether you act on it is up to you. When I have been placed in similar situations to the one that faces you, I have used a technique that is not very original but seems to work. Select one person in the audience. It does not matter who that person is. Then concentrate your whole effort on trying to convince that one person of the rightness of your case. Pour all your energy into convincing that person as though they were the only person in the room and, with a little luck, through him or her you will convince the rest of your listeners. I must be off now. Best of luck for Tuesday.

The room in which the debate was held was arranged in the time honoured fashion of the debating society of the two schools. A small desk for the chairman forming the apex of a triangle with two tables on either side, one for the speakers for the motion, one for the speakers against the motion. Facing the tables, the remaining space in the room was taken up by rows of chairs for the rest of the debating society members and their guests.

Mark sat at the table for the speakers for the motion next to Tom his friend, his notes in front of him on the table, his stomach tight and his eyes moving along the rows of pupils sitting listening to Mr. Jones making the opening remarks. The soft drawl of the teacher's voice set off echoes in his mind and he thought about their conversation in the library the week before. At the same time his eyes settled on one face in the crowd, a girl's face and for no reason he could ever explain, he decided to concentrate on her while he was making his speech. Many times afterwards, Mark had tried to analyse his motives in choosing that girl. There were other girls present, some he knew, some were strangers but the girl's face seemed to him, in his heightened state of awareness, to cry out for attention, to cry out to be convinced. It was, he had to admit even as he drove home after giving Sue a lift all those years latter, a pretty face, heart shaped with clear skin and framed by shoulder length brown hair but it was the eyes that drew Mark's gaze. They appeared grey in the light, wide open and innocent, looking out at the world as though in anticipation of the pleasures to come. They twinkled at what they observed, creased at the corners when she laughed and Mark felt he could disappear into their depths.

For the course of the debate, Mark used those eyes as his focus that face as his sounding board and directed all his arguments at her thoughts as though he was speaking to her personally. With this focus for what he was saying, he half forgot the rest of the audience, clamped his voice to his purpose and set out to convince her of the truth of his reasoning. His passion became a cry tuned to what he hoped was the keyboard of her sympathy, his logic honed to the keenest edge to cut through any doubts she might have and his persuasiveness modulated to caress any residual questions she might have left. In a way, he realised with a dash of experienced insight looking back now as he drove through the midday traffic, it was like making love with words rather than actions. When the debate ended, he came back to earth, exhilarated by the experience but tired out by his efforts. Slumped back in his chair, he was only dimly aware that the motion had been lost after the vote. He came back to full awareness of the room when Mr. Jones slapped him on the shoulder and grasped his hand.

Mark you were magnificent! Mr. Jones exclaimed forgetting for once that he always called the pupils by their surnames. Tom your support was very valuable. You two worked very well as a team.

Thank you sir, Tom had said, I did my best but Mark was inspired tonight.

But we lost the motion, was all Mark could mutter looking down at the tabletop.

Don't be so hard on yourself my boy, Mr. Jones confronted Mark. You were so close to winning that during the count I thought you might have pulled off a miracle and actually won. A splendid evening my boys.

Other people, both staff and pupils followed Mr. Jones in congratulating Mark until Mark was left alone to collect up his papers. Tucking these into a brief case, he pushed his way through the crowd towards the door. The girl he had used to pour forth his oratory stood shyly by the door waiting for him to approach. Her face was serious and she looked a little nervous but her eyes still managed to smile when he joined her.

Hello, Mark said shyly.

Hello, she greeted him. I'm Susan Maunder and I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your speech. You seemed to reach right into me, to uncover thoughts which I did not know I could even consider and you carried me along with the force of your words.

Thank you, Mark said.

Confronted by her, he felt his natural shyness towards girls taking hold and did not know what else to say. Her eyes, no longer at a distance, searched his, seemed to probe right into his soul and he felt naked before her. He knew he was being silly but for some reason he was not only tongue-tied but he had to drop his eyes from hers, something he very rarely did when speaking to other people. He had learnt from experience that in most situations he could hold his stare with anybody and in doing so was able to control the conversation. Dropping his eyes from her face brought no comfort however. Her body was that of a young woman, rounded breasts, slim waist, curving hips and long shapely legs. Even the drabness of her white blouse, navy blazer and skirt did not hide the fact of her growing womanhood from his eyes. He felt sweet break out on his forehead, and a desire to kiss her formed in his mind. He had to fight to remain calm but the effort made his throat dry and he could say nothing to her.

Can we give you a lift home? she asked her eyes still locked on his drawing him into their mysterious depths. My father is outside in the car and he won't mind taking you home if I ask him.

Thank you for the offer, Mark managed to blurt out, as other people leaving the room pushed them close. The touch of her breasts and the smell of her perfume was playing havoc with his thoughts. I have made other arrangements for getting home already. I'll see you at the next debate. Deep within himself he cursed his shyness, realising that he was missing an opportunity but his shyness intervened. You should have asked her to a dance or something he told himself.

I'll look forward to that, Sue replied, smiled, squeezed his hand which to his surprise she had been holding since they came together and left him standing staring after her when she left to meet her father.

They had met frequently after that, mainly at joint functions run by one or the other of the schools, though a few times when a crowd went out in the evenings together. It was not surprising that their social life revolved around their friends at school because most of their friends were drawn from their classmates. Actually, Mark realised as he drove home, in his case this was not strictly true. He tended, from whatever motive, to segregate his life into compartments and he still had a tendency to do that now. His school friends were in one compartment and his old friends from the area round the shipyard with whom he went out to drink and play football were another separate compartment. He was very good at making sure one compartment never overlapped the other so that his school life and his home life rarely mixed.

Slowly over time, his shyness dwindled and their friends started to accept that Sue and he were a couple, making sure they always sat together. In this way their friendship blossomed but, as they were never alone together, it did not go beyond holding hands or brief kissing.

One February morning, Mark was sitting in the park opposite the school, bundled up against the cold, idly watching some younger boys play football and some of his friends walking by holding hands with their girlfriends. For some reason, maybe the sound of the wind in the trees or the squawk of seagulls sheltering inland from the weather, he was deep in thought about his planned life at sea. It did not occur to him that he would not make the grades required in his A levels and at the moment the call of the sea was strong. Not that he had found the task of convincing his headmaster of his intended career easy. His headmaster had assumed, like all the bright pupils at the school,