Eavesdropping

It was completely dark by the time the bus pulled up outside the terminal on the quay. I quickly folded up the travel section of a Saturday newspaper I had found on the train and thanked the driver as I got off. I could see there was a boat waiting.

It was about seven-thirty on a Saturday night and the ticket office was manned by a girl who looked like she wanted to be somewhere else having drinks bought for her. The light of the terminal was white and empty after the orange streetlights in the dark. I bought a ticket in haste and the girl went back to her celebrity gossip magazine. As I hurried toward the doors of the building a group of flustered middle aged women came in and blocked the way with their wide sweeping gowns. I cut through the middle of them, apologising over my shoulder as I rushed for the tarmac ramp to the jetty. The ferry company workers were leaning against the ramp railings talking with easy slowness. There was no need to rush.

There were other people dotted around the boat in evening dress. Sitting close to the gangway in the cooler air there was a pretty girl I recognised from school on the island but whose name I couldn’t remember, and sitting at the back there were five loudly laughing men in jeans and Ben Sherman shirts on their way to a night out in the pubs of Cowes.

I like to sit at the front of the boat where the seats face each other and there is more legroom. The facing seats ran along all three aisles. Facing the opposite way to me and across the aisle was a man in his late twenties, suntanned, with good but plain clothes. His hands were worn and paint-speckled. A large blue canvas bag with a sailing logo was slung in the seat next to him. Sitting opposite him was a young woman in a ball gown of light green shimmering material with her dark hair up, curled elegantly round on itself beneath a spray of tiny white flowers. Once settled in my seat, I could only see the man. They were talking.

I unfolded the travel supplement and picked up my place in an article about New York. I meant to read for the journey, and I began to do so, but the moored boat was so quiet that their conversation was clear to me.

“So you’ve been working today then?” - her voice. It was silky smooth, rounded and without accent. I couldn’t see her and hadn’t really seen her face, but I imagined.
“Yes. I’ve just finished a job, and I’m going home. I’ve been staying on this side of the water while I’ve been working. I’ve got a week off now. How about you?”
His voice was relaxed, but he was very animated and you could tell he was excited to be talking to her. He had a soft Isle of Wight accent.
“I’m going to a ball at the Squadron in Cowes. I was meant to be meeting some friends on this boat but they’re probably going to miss it now. They took too long getting ready. I just called one of them and they’re in a mad rush.”
“Well, it’s only half an hour to the next one,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. There was a pause.
“So what do you do,” he asked, “if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m a student, still. I’m doing a Masters at the university.”
“Oh right, what in?” he asked.
“Oh! Er, Biological Chemistry. People don’t ask very often. I’m doing my dissertation on the effect of certain chemicals on nerve cell conductivity.”

There was another slight pause. It was a quiet moment. The boat was still moored at the quay and the engines were off. A gentle rolling motion came from the passing of a tanker heading past and out into The Solent, and its navigation lights along with those of the terminal building were the only break in the darkness. The travel journalist opined a preference for Torquay over New York.

“How do you find your work? Do you get bored at all?” she asked.
“Mm, no, not really. It’s all right. Money’s good too, some jobs. Been on double bubble this past week to finish the job ahead of time,” he said, moving his hands with his words. “You know,” he said, “if I was really cheeky, I’d ask you for your telephone number, to take you out for a drink.”

I shot a glance over my shoulder as subtly as I could to see her reaction. I expected her to be looking awkward or uncomfortable, being harassed by this random bloke on her way to a ball. Her face was open, warm and smiling.
“Do you often try to pick up girls on the ferry?” she asked, with a playful tone in her voice.
“Not often.”
“I imagine it’s quite hard to practise,” she said, “I’m Karen.”
“Mike.”
His hand went out of sight and came back, I assume, shaken.
“So what do you think? Do you think giving me your phone number might be something you might do? I know it’s cheeky,” he said.
“It is, very cheeky,” she interrupted.
“...very. We’ve been getting on really well though, so I thought, why not? Ask her. So do you think, if I have a pen, you’d give me your number?”
“It’s really cheeky,” she said, and it sounded like she was smiling.
“Yeah, I know, but would you, if I can find a pen?” he said.
“Yes, I think so,” she said. The man’s hands fell into his bag, and, surprised, I read for a while.
“I haven’t got a pen,” he said.
I put down my newspaper and lifted my messenger bag into my lap. I opened it, taking care to shake it about and clear my throat at the same time. The front pouch of my bag is a sort of netting, and in there I carry a small notebook, pencils and pens, and it was this bit I was shaking around, rummaging theatrically in the bag, eventually emerging with a bus timetable which I flicked open randomly, tapping my fingers absentmindedly on the front of my bag, giving that unique wooden pinking noise which pencils always make, so it would be impossible not to notice them.
I looked up from my timetable, and he was scowling at me. ‘Hands off’, said his expression. ‘Go away’. I attempted a half-hearted pat of my bag, but he looked back at the girl.
“You haven’t got a pen?” she said.
“No.”
There was an approaching sound of running heels on covered metal slowing to a walk, and a group of five girls came breathlessly into the boat, all dressed elegantly, but leaning on the backs of the seats with relieved abandon.
The girl across the aisle stood up.
“It’s my friends,” she said, and walked down the aisle to them.
“Do come back,” said the man, looking after her as she went.
The boat started its engines, ropes were thrown in the electric half-light, and we pulled away from the quay. The girl sat with her friends halfway down the aisle. They opened a bottle of champagne as we crossed The Solent, sounding happy, and the girl did not come back.

As we levelled with the quay at Cowes and the gangway fell heavily against the jetty, the girls were the first off the boat and their heels echoed on the ramp as they went, laughing, excited about their ball. The man and I, sitting all the way to the front, were the last two on board. I saw him standing alone outside the terminal, his bag over his shoulder, as my bus pulled away into the gentle orange lights of the town.