The Last Crossing

The ferry’s there again, looming at the end of the street like an uninvited guest who’s decided to stay the night. Not that it’s unusual—it’s always there, same time, same place, as regular as clockwork. But still, it’s hard to ignore, isn’t it? All lit up like Blackpool Illuminations, sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt. You’d think it’d have the decency to look a bit less smug after all these years.

I’m at the window, as I often am, with the curtain held just so, peering out like some old busybody. Not that there’s anyone left round here to gossip about. The street’s gone quiet over the years—kids grown up, moved away, and who can blame them? I wouldn’t stay here if I had a choice. But I don’t, so here I am, standing in my living room, watching the ferry at the end of the road as it hums and rumbles like it’s got secrets it doesn’t plan on sharing.

Thirty years I’ve worked on that thing. Thirty-one next month, but who’s counting? Me, evidently. I was twenty-four when I started. Hair like Mick Jagger, full of ambition. Course, I thought I wouldn’t stay long. Just a stopgap, you know, something to tide me over while I figured out what I actually wanted to do. That was the idea. Well, thirty years later, I’m still here, and if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure what it was I thought I’d be figuring out. Funny how it creeps up on you. One day you’re young and invincible, and the next you’re fifty-five, standing at the window, smoking a fag you swore you’d given up, and wondering how exactly you ended up here.

Sandra used to say I was a dreamer. “You’ve always got your head stuck in the clouds,” she’d say, usually when I’d forgotten to do something, like take the bins out or pick the kids up from school. Thing was, she wasn’t wrong. I did dream. Still do, occasionally. Though these days, it’s less clouds and more… well, fog. That thick, clinging kind you get out on the North Sea in winter. The kind that makes you feel like you’re going nowhere, even when you’re moving.

I take a drag on the cigarette and watch the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. It’s a bad habit, I know, but then I’ve had worse. Anyway, it’s not like there’s anyone here to complain about it—not anymore. Sandra left years ago. Packed up the kids, the dog, and her mother’s collection of Royal Doulton figurines, and drove off without so much as a backward glance. Not that I blame her. I wasn’t easy to live with. Always at work, always tired, always with some excuse for why I couldn’t be present. “I’m doing this for us,” I’d say, which was true, in a way. But then you realize that “us” has gone, and all you’re left with is the job and a house that suddenly feels much too big.

The ferry’s starting to move now, easing away from the dock with all the grace of a middle-aged man trying to climb out of a deckchair. I watch it go, the lights from the cabins twinkling like Christmas decorations. From here, it looks almost glamorous. Almost. But I know better. I know what it’s like inside—thin carpets, brown curtains, and that faint smell of disinfectant that never quite goes away.

It’s like a cross between a Travelodge and a service station, with added sea sickness. And yet, people love it. They come from all over, filling the decks, excited for whatever’s on the other side of the crossing. It’s funny, isn’t it? How they’re all heading somewhere, while I’m stuck here, watching them leave.

I used to wonder about the passengers, you know. Where they were going, why they were going. You’d get all sorts—families, couples, truck drivers with stories that get longer every time they tell them. Occasionally, you’d get someone on their own, sitting quietly in the corner with a book or a cup of tea, and I’d think, “That’ll be me one day.” And now it is. Except I don’t have the book or the tea—just the fag and the view of the ferry disappearing into the dark.

I close the curtain and stand there for a moment, listening to the house. It’s quiet tonight. Too quiet, really. I should put the telly on, but I won’t. There’s nothing worth watching, and anyway, I can’t be bothered. Instead, I sit down at the kitchen table, light another cigarette, and think about the ferry.

Always the ferry. Sitting at the end of the road like it’s watching me, waiting for me to make a move. But I won’t. Not tonight, anyway. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

I wonder sometimes what it’d be like to get on the ferry and not come back. Just go, like the passengers do, and see where I end up. Newcastle, maybe. Or further. Somewhere warm. Somewhere without ferries. But I know I won’t. I’m too old for that now. Too set in my ways. This is my life, this house, this job, this street with the ferry at the end of it. And that’s alright, I suppose. It’s not what I wanted, but it’s mine.

For now, anyway.