Five Into Three Does Not Go

Kristina

It is waspish in the late evening out in the open in Portsmouth Harbour as we step out of the vehicle and walk over to the private section of the docks, the sign says Ceres St docks. Dark has long since fallen but lights, white, yellow and orange light up the skies. The feeling is one of a weak attempt at gay cheer under a sombre shroud of a sky. Snow is expected tonight, there will be snow on new year's day but the temperature is still going to be in the forties and the town is excited.

"The lights have not done too much damage," I say to the driver.

He agrees, the thing was a stupid idea to begin with. "They usually just put up wreaths of pine all around the main square for Christmas and set up antique lamps. But they got this new fangled idea this year. I was hoping they would take them the day after Christmas but no, its' been a week already."

The main square of the town lay completely deserted save for a cleaning crew that worked at sweeping up the Christmas detritus in preparation for the parade they would be having tomorrow. The docks are similarly empty, the boats have long since been locked up for the height of the winter. The staff for the docks is down to one, a middle aged man past caring, drinking his cocoa, I think. There is no one to challenge us as we walk into the section for medium sized yachts but we are in such high spirits that there is nothing that is likely to turn us off.

Carl is at the captains' wheel and waves to us, takes easy strides over to the gangplank, vaulting his long legs over the mooring line easily. He strides up, shakes Jim by the hand, gives Kim a generous kiss on her cheek, gives me a hug and with a devilish smile, pecks Michael, my husband companionably high up on my cheek, near his ear. He is dressed very sharply in a dress pants and sparkling white shirt, a Rolex lay around his left wrist and his hair had been trimmed to a no nonsense buzz. His sideburns traced an anvil path down his cheeks, pared down and ferocious.