A never-ending shoal of grey mullet, clearly visible under the river’s surface, was swimming upstream, feeding in the current. To Mick’s left, the ancient three-spanned bridge crossed the river. Traffic thundered down it in both directions. Lorries carrying Portland stone from the nearby quarries juddered along between carloads of day-trippers returning from a day on the beach. It was a normal late Saturday afternoon in summer for this small Dorset town, which had grown up over the centuries by this river.

But for Mick, sitting on the riverbank, it was the worst day of his life – all 21 years of it. He stared down at the mullet procession. There was no end to it. The incoming tide was swelling the river, swirling towards the bridge, past the rock on which he sat. A well-trodden footpath ran behind him, but only a few dog walkers had gone past, taking no interest in him as he stared down into the water.

He sat with his head in his hands. Occasionally he would look up and stare across the water to where the manicured lawns of the Priory Hotel swooped down to the opposite riverbank. He could hardly bear to look at the people spilling out of the hotel and mingling on the terrace. He could see them as they chatted on the lawn, tall thin drinks glasses in hand. The noise of the traffic drowned out their laughter, but he knew they would be laughing, enjoying the summer wedding. He also knew that she would appear soon. Why was he torturing himself like this? Why didn’t he get up and walk away and get on with his life?

He’d known Paula all his life. They’d been at school together. They’d been inseparable. Everyone knew she was his girlfriend and only his. She’d promised when she left for university that she would come home at weekends to be with him. That had worked until the first Christmas. The next New Year, she confessed that she had met someone else. She’d left him for the suited fool whom he could now see crossing the lawn.

Where was she? Look. Don’t look. He started counting the fish swimming past – there were hundreds. Look. Don’t look. Look. She’s there. The white clad figure he still loved was there. The river between them flowed wide. She wouldn’t know he was sitting there in agony, watching her every move. Camera flashes went off around her as she twirled in her long dress. The bridesmaids fussed about her. The suited fool was always so close to her.

It was hopeless. He couldn’t stay any longer. His mate Steve’s rowing boat was tied up a few feet away. Mick stood up, untied the boat and jumped down into it. As it rocked, he put the oars in place and pushed out over the passing mullet. Heading away from the bridge and its traffic, he began to row downstream towards the harbour. If he kept on rowing he would be swept out through the harbour mouth and on out to sea. He would capsize, drown and never be in pain again. Those were his thoughts as the small craft began what he saw as his last journey. That was Plan A. But the effort to pull on the oars jolted him. The tide was still incoming. It wouldn’t sweep him out to sea. It would merely deposit him a few hundred yards from the river mouth on the nearby sandy beach.

Was there a Plan B? No. But maybe Plan A was flawed because it was not meant to be. Maybe life should go on. As he rowed and mulled these thoughts over in his head, he heard a loud voice.

‘Mick! Mick! Hey Mick! What y’ doing in my boat?’

Mick stopped rowing and looked across to the riverside pub. It was Steve with his mates from work. In that instant, Plan B formed. Pull the boat around and go and drown his sorrows, instead of drowning himself.