The River Ferry – Part 1: Morning Crossing

"You're late," said William.

"By two minutes."

"I waited." He held out a hand to help her aboard, a wide, weathered hand with the steadiness of a man used to rocking decks. "I always wait for you."

Ilona laughed and stepped on to the little ferry. It was a small flat-bottomed boat that crossed the Danube twice an hour, carrying cyclists, market women and the occasional goat, and she had taken it every morning for three months. Ilona, sixty, a retired schoolteacher from Szentendre, walked each day to the far bank for coffee, a newspaper and a bench with a view of the water. William was the ferryman.

He was sixty-four, silver-haired and lean, with a gentle English accent from his mother and a Hungarian soul from forty years of living in Budapest. His wife had died six years before. He kept a thermos of strong sweet tea on the wheelhouse shelf and always poured two cups.

"I think I'll be sad when the weather turns," said Ilona, sipping.

"The ferry runs in winter."

"You'll be cold."

"I'll be fine. I have a very warm wheelhouse. And company, if it chooses to come."

"I choose to come," said Ilona, a little surprised at herself.

Autumn drifted into the valley, golden and misty. The ferry ploughed slowly across the water through patches of fog, its lamp glowing like a tiny moon. They talked about their lives, their losses, the oddities of being old and still curious. One misty morning, when the river was wrapped in white, William cut the engine mid-stream and let them drift.

"I should not do this," he said, "but I wanted a quiet moment."

"For what?"

"To ask if you would have dinner with me. On the shore. Not on the ferry."

"William," said Ilona, softly. "I would like that very much."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Slow Water.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Slow Water.