Oh Jack, the river,” cried Sarah, throwing the French windows of our bedroom wide open and stepping onto the small balcony beyond. “It’s just… it’s wonderful. Looks like the Orinoco or something with all those trees coming down to the water’s edge.”
And the view was spectacular, the hotel looking out over the tidal tree-lined t-shaped confluence of the Truro and Tresillian Rivers, which formed a larger channel that curved out of sight to the south. This morning the tide was at half ebb, so that the water was well below the lowest tree branches, which were cut off in an unnatural looking straight line (the salt-water killed the growth where it touched the trees, locals had explained to me). Mewing seagulls vied with the buzzing of numerous small boats ferrying people out to larger yachts that were moored up and down the creek, their owners preparing to leave for the day. I had watched this scene change with the passing of winter and the greening of spring, and rain, wind or shine, there was always something different to see.
“Have you got your Polaroid in the bag?”
“Yes, next to the big camera case, why?”
“I want to catch this moment, with you standing by the window.”
“Alright,” she said, instinctively adjusting her hair and night dress as I picked up the camera, removed the case, pointed, and clicked.
“What do I do now, Sarah?”
“Wait, darling.”
And so, we waited, several minutes passing before a tiny oblong plastic sheet slowly edged out from the back of the camera. “Right, now take that and carefully peel off the front covering.” I peeled as instructed, watching as the chemicals met the air of the room and a black and white image of Sarah’s head and neck, framed by the window, gradually appeared.
“I’d like to keep this in my pocket, Sarah, but it’s a bit sticky.”
“Give it to me,” she said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a packet of plastic sleeves. “You put the instant picture into one of these, then press all over and it’s preserved forever.” She thumbed the sleeve until all the air had gone and then passed me the photo. “There you are, Jack, for your wallet. I’ll be watching you everywhere you go now.”
“You don’t need to watch me, Sarah.”
“Don’t I?”
“Don’t be silly, now look…” I pointed out of the window and to the right. “If we went far enough down that river we’d end up at the academy.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she shouted, any worries about keeping an eye on me now seemingly gone. “Is that the boat you mentioned that goes to Falmouth?” she then asked, as a sky-blue painted pleasure steamer with white deck housing, a scarlet funnel, and dressed overall with coloured pennants, rounded the point opposite.
“Yes, that’s the Kernow Belle,” I answered, looking at my alarm clock as the boat slowed to moor by the village jetty. “Eight thirty now, so she’ll sail on to Truro after this, pick up passengers and then come back here, for about ten o’clock, I think.”
“Ten o’clock?”
“Yes,” I said, pulling off my pyjama top. “So, if we want to catch that boat, we’d better get down to breakfast.”
“Alright, Jack, as long as you don’t have kippers. I won’t kiss you after you’ve eaten kippers.”
“Well, perhaps, if you kissed me before breakfast…”
We managed to wait another twenty minutes then go down to breakfast, where I did eat kippers after all.