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Frank came on Saturday afternoon, and we went across the Humber on the ferry.

The ferryboats were big white paddle-steamers that trundled back and forth across the river from the Corporation Pier to the landing stage at New Holland on the Lincolnshire side.

We went on the top deck. It was a clear day. We could see right up the river to where trawlers were lying off the fish docks and far beyond out into the country, and we could see down river beyond Saltend. When we got out into the middle of the river we could look back at Hull. I felt a tenderness for the city. On the water the paddles had made a long wake behind the steamer.

A trawler passed astern of us. It was going down river. The name on the bow was Arctic Eagle. I said I thought that it was a fine name. I said that trawlermen were brave men.

I told Frank that I couldn’t swim.

‘Neither can I.’

‘What shall we do if anything happens?’

‘Sink.’

‘Would we?’

‘No, of course not. We’d get into that.’ He pointed to a lifeboat that was near where we were standing.

‘Women and children first,’ I said. Then I said, ‘You know, Frank, you ought to learn to swim.’

‘What for?’

‘So that you’d be able to save yourself if you fell in the water.’

‘I don’t intend to fall in the water.’

‘Everybody ought to be able to swim,’ I said seriously.

‘Some trawlermen think it’s unlucky to go to sea with a man who can swim.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose they reckon it’s a poor seaman that has to do any swimming.’

We did not leave the ferryboat at New Holland. Frank said there was nothing to see there. We watched the passengers getting off and the cars being driven off and then the people coming down and cars coming down to come on board to go to Hull.

When we got back to Hull we had tea in a café that had starched, white tablecloths.

I remember that Frank was an ordinary man that night—but he was more than an ordinary man. I kept looking at him and thinking that I loved him. It was happiness.