by Paige Toon
It’s only when their laughter dies that I realise I haven’t thought of Joe for the last twenty minutes. That’s a new record.
I do return to the river at the same time the next day. The rain has held off, although the sky is grey and miserable and drizzle threatens.
‘You came!’ he shouts.
‘You have an empty boat!’ I shout back.
‘It’s a bit quiet,’ he says, holding out his hand to me.
‘Are you sure this is okay?’ I warily step aboard. ‘You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?’
‘Nah. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. As long as I’m back at the Magdalene Bridge station in time for my next tour in forty-five minutes, no one will give a monkey’s.’
I sit down and look up at him. ‘Are you going to tell me your name today?’
‘Haven’t you come up with one?’
I smile, feeling oddly relaxed with this flame-haired stranger. ‘I’m thinking . . . Ron.’
‘Ron?’
‘After Ron Weasley.’
‘Ron Weasley!’ he exclaims.
‘From Harry Potter.’
‘Yes, I know who Ron Weasley is,’ he snaps. ‘I assume you mean the actor who plays him?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know his name.’
The first movie only came out last year.
He looks disgruntled. ‘I think you’ll find it’s Rupert Grint. And he’s about twelve.’
‘Well, you look like an older and more jaded version, then. How he’ll look in ten years’ time.’
‘I’m nineteen!’
‘Seven years’ time, then.’
He looks mortally offended and I can’t help but laugh. ‘You asked for it.’
‘Bollocks to that. My name is Jessie.’
I giggle. ‘Too late. I’m sticking with Ron.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I suppose it’s preferable to Weasley.’
My eyes widen with delight.
He moans. ‘Oh, shit, now I’ve done it, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you bloody well have. Weasley it is.’
‘Fuck.’
We grin at each other.
‘So are you a Fresher?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘What are you studying?’
‘English Lit.’
‘Like it?’
‘It’s not bad.’
‘That doesn’t sound too promising.’
‘No, I do like it . . .’ I try to convince him because I don’t want to explain about Joe.
‘Chuck it in and come punting instead,’ he suggests offhandedly.
‘Is it hard?’ I ask with curiosity, remembering the girl punter I saw a couple of days ago.
‘Dead easy once you get to grips with it.’
‘How did you learn?’
‘On one of the self-hire punts. Spent a few hours teaching myself.’ He hesitates. ‘Do you want to try it?’
‘Um . . .’ I’m weirdly tempted, but . . . ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘What shoes are you wearing?’
‘Stilettos,’ I joke, lifting up my trainer-encased feet.
He smiles. ‘Go on,’ he encourages me.
I look around, contemplating his offer. There’s hardly anyone on the river today, so I won’t humiliate myself too much. ‘Okay,’ I agree before I can change my mind.
‘Swap,’ he says.
I step up onto the wooden platform and he hands me the pole. It’s much heavier than I thought it would be. He steps down into the seat bay.
‘Wait!’ I say, panicked. ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’
‘Just drop the pole in and push the boat along,’ he says, collapsing onto the bench seat below me and stretching his legs out. ‘But let go if it gets stuck in the mud, otherwise you’ll fall in.’
‘Great,’ I mutter sarcastically.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, casually putting his hands behind his head. ‘All of the other first-timers get thrown in at the deep end,’ he adds.
‘I’m not sure I appreciate your choice of words,’ I say primly.
‘Okay,’ he concedes. ‘Stand sideways to the edge of the punt, looking forwards.’
I do as he says.
‘Now, lift the pole clear of the water, keeping it alongside the boat, then let it slip through your hands until it hits the bottom. Push away.’
Sounds easy enough . . . But, ARGH! The boat is heading towards the bank. ‘I can’t do this!’ I squeal.
‘Let the pole float up and use it as a rudder to correct your position,’ he advises calmly.
I’m a nervous wreck as I try to do what he says. Slowly but surely the boat steers away from the bank.
‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘Now lift the pole clear of the water again and angle it slightly backwards.’
‘It’s heavy,’ I gasp as the water runs down the pole and up my arm, soaking my jumper.
‘The metal ones are lighter than the wooden ones,’ he says. ‘But you get used to it,’ he assures me.
‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’ll be doing this again anytime soon.’
‘You never know. You might surprise yourself.’
It turns out that Jessie was right.
‘Henry VIII founded Trinity College in 1546, generously endowing it with property seized from the monasteries.’
My passengers murmur with interest.
Yes, you read that right. My passengers . . .
After that first time, never in a million years did I think I’d become good at punting, and never in a zillion years did I think I’d become skilled enough to actually work as a punter, yet here I am, with a tour boat full of people, punting down the Backs, regaling them with stories of the kings and queens who built these colleges and studied here.
‘When Prince Charles studied at Trinity he was treated like any other student, with the exception that he was allowed to have a telephone in his room. He was so annoyed at the no-car policy for all Cambridge students that one day he decided to bring his helicopter to college.’
Several of my passengers chuckle with amusement. This story has been passed on from punter to punter and the last part is probably not even true, but it makes for a more entertaining tour.
A familiar red-headed punter looms up ahead. I dig into the rocky bottom with determination and pick up my pace.
‘Afternoon,’ I say chirpily as my boat glides past.
‘Oi!’ he calls after me, his brow furrowed because I’ve overtaken him.
‘Taking a nap?’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Preparation for tonight. You up for a drink at the Anchor after work?’
That’s one of the local pubs on the river we all hang out in.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Watch your head!’ he jokes as I duck under the bridge. I know this river like the back of my hand now. Sometimes I think I could punt blindfolded.
It’s a sweltering afternoon and I breathe a sigh of relief as I glide up to the jetty with my last tour boat. A couple of tourists tip me generously as they disembark and I say a grateful thank you. That’ll buy the first round. I wipe my arm across my brow. If it’s this hot in May, I can’t imagine what next month will be like. I’ve tied my hair up into a bun, but I can feel perspiration at the nape of my neck. A sudden burst of cool wind gives me some relief, but it’s stifling again all too quickly. I’m glad I’m wearing a dress today: a white sundress. It’s kind of become my uniform. Jessie, on the other hand, still punts all in black, even in the heatwave.
I step straight off the boat and walk up to the pub. Tables and chairs butt up against the ropes on the pavement overlooking the river. Jessie is already inside at the bar. He turns and flashes me a grin, before handing over what has now become my regular: a pint of lager. I never thought I’d be a lager girl, I can tell you that much.
‘Here you go, China.’
‘Cheers, Weasley.’
Our nicknames have stuck. We chink glasses and each glug down a few m
outhfuls. The bitter-tasting liquid hits the back of my throat and instantly cools me down from the inside out.
‘Pretty full-on day, hey?’ Jessie comments.
‘Just a bit.’
‘How many did you do?’ He’s referring to tours.
‘Five.’
‘Pansy,’ he teases.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know I still haven’t come close to touching your twelve, but I’m getting there.’
He nudges me affectionately. ‘You don’t do half bad, considering you’re a little one.’
A stool comes free at the bar. He passes it to me, then leans up against the wooden bar top. We always seem to find ourselves standing up here until our pals arrive, and then more often than not we relocate to a table – outside if we can find one.
‘Thanks,’ I say for the stool. I’m desperate to sit down. ‘How’s your student search coming along?’ I ask.
Last year, Jessie’s parents left the UK to go abroad for two and a half years. His dad is a lawyer at a top firm and they wanted him to work in their Washington office for a while, so Jessie’s parents left him to look after the house with permission to rent out two of the bedrooms to students. It worked well, but as both students were third years he needs to find a couple of new ones for September.
‘Why don’t you move in?’ he asks casually, taking a sip of his lager and regarding me over the brim of his pint glass.
‘You’re serious? You wouldn’t want to live with me,’ I say dismissively.
‘Sure I would.’
‘You work with me. You want to live with me too?’
‘Why not? We could walk to work together.’
‘Commute together, as well? Why don’t we get married and have two kids while we’re at it?’
He looks disgusted. ‘Christ, what a thought.’
‘How rude!’ I try to act outraged, but I can’t keep a straight face. He grins and wraps his arm around my neck, before pressing his lips to the top of my head.
We have a very tactile relationship, Jessie and I, but there’s absolutely no sexual chemistry between us whatsoever. I couldn’t have been friends with him if there were. I know he doesn’t fancy me in the slightest. And that’s important to me. I still love Joe. I still miss Joe. But Jessie has been my saviour. He resuscitated me. I don’t know what I would have done without him.
‘You’re not going to get anywhere with Blondie if you keep doing that in front of her,’ I chastise him gently before looking over his shoulder at the girl behind the bar. He’s been making eyes at her for weeks. He grins and chinks my glass again. I notice the blonde behind the bar glance our way and her brow furrows slightly. Maybe she does have the hots for Jessie after all. Me being here is not going to help his cause, but I can’t leave. I need him too much. I literally shudder at the thought of losing him.
‘You’re not coming down with anything, are you?’ he asks with concern, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I change the subject. ‘Shall we see if the others are here?’
‘Sure.’ He looks over at the bar girl, but now she’s steadily averting her gaze. I can’t help but feel guilty as he follows me out through the pub.
‘No!’ Jessie shouts at Chris, a tall, blond, good-looking guy who’s also a fellow punter. ‘She doesn’t need another one.’
‘Who are you, her father?’ Chris shouts back from the doorway. ‘Alice? What are you having?’
I wave him away and point to Jessie, who’s sitting to my left on a long bench seat. ‘No . . . He’s right,’ I slur. ‘I should probably call it a night.’
‘Party-pooper,’ Chris mutters, turning to go inside.
We left the Anchor a couple of hours ago and relocated to the Pickerel Inn on the other side of the city, near our Magdalene Bridge punting station. We’re sitting at a bench table in the courtyard.
‘Aren’t you coming clubbing?’ Sammy asks with disappointment from across the table.
Sammy works at the kiosk selling tour tickets. She’s pretty, a little taller than me, with shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes.
‘It’s Thursday night,’ she moans at Jessie, who’s usually her most dependable drinking buddy.
‘No, I’d better get China home,’ Jessie says, sliding out from the bench seat.
‘I can manage.’ I try to stand up, but wobble dramatically. Jessie puts his hands on my waist and lifts me clear over the top of Mike – another punter pal – who’s sitting on the other side of me.
‘Whoa!’ He ducks his head.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble a drunken apology.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Jessie calls to our mates, still half carrying me. He steers me through the old, narrow pub with its dark wooden beams and low ceilings to the street exit.
‘Bye,’ I say to Jessie, who lives in the other direction.
‘You’re not walking home alone in this state,’ he snaps, pulling me back. ‘I think you’d better stay at mine.’
‘Again?’ I groan. ‘Everyone already thinks you’re my boyfriend.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
I crash over at his all the time. I’ve never been able to bond with the students at my hall of residence, maybe because I was so broken when I went to live there. But even though I’m, well, I wouldn’t say fixed, but certainly in a state of repair, I don’t feel like I can suddenly fit in. Jessie has been here for me through this transformation – or reformation, if you like. My fellow students put this down to him – down to love. It doesn’t matter enough to me to convince them that he’s just a friend. I tried once, but the girls teased me and didn’t believe a word of it. They seem to want me to have found someone. I don’t want to disappoint them. They can believe what they want to believe as long as it keeps them happy.
Bacon and eggs. Mmm. Now, that’s a good enough reason for crashing over if ever I needed one. I sleepily open my eyes the next morning to see that, as predicted, Jessie is nowhere to be seen. Which means he’s downstairs in the kitchen whipping up breakfast for us both.
I’m in Jessie’s room at the front of the house. He’s been staying in the master since his parents left, and their super-king-sized bed is more than big enough to comfortably house both of us.
I climb out of bed and drag on one of his T-shirts, which comes almost to my knees as he’s about a foot taller than me, and make my way downstairs.
‘Good morning,’ he says chirpily.
I collapse on a chair at the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ I say.
‘Do what?’
‘How can you drink the amount you drink and still wake up feeling cheery the next morning?’
‘What can I say? It’s a talent.’ He pours me a cup of coffee.
‘One of many.’
‘You’re too kind.’ He smiles at me and dishes up two plates of bacon and eggs. ‘What are your plans for today?’
‘I have a lecture this afternoon,’ I reply.
‘Ooh, exciting,’ he says, although he’s being completely sarcastic. He cannot for the life of him understand the attraction of my degree. ‘I can punt you back up to Silver Street, if you like?’
‘No, I’d better hightail it on foot. But thanks. I really need to get back to do some reading,’ I tell him.
‘I don’t know why you don’t bring your books with you when you stay over.’
‘Are you kidding me? You’ve seen The Norton Anthology, right? It’s like a small child.’
The Norton Anthology comes in two enormous volumes and surveys English Literature from the Middle Ages to the twenty-first century. It’s been doing my back in for months; one girl I know pulls it around in a wheelie bag.
‘Anyway, I didn’t know I was staying over, remember?’
‘Yeah, yeah. You should know by now.’
I smile at him sadly. ‘I’m going to miss you this summer.’
His lips turn down. ‘Me too. I hate it when you lot bugger off for the holidays.’
Some of ou
r friends – Sammy, Mike and Chris – are also students at Anglia Ruskin. They’ll also be going home for the summer.
‘I’m not looking forward to leaving, either,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself for three months . . .’ Being away from Jessie, away from my studies, which I do enjoy, away from the river . . . Having to live at home with my parents after almost a year of independence . . .
The truth is that I know exactly what I’ll end up doing. I’ll end up looking for Joe again. London is where he is. Where he said he would be. I know I’ll spend long, heartbreaking days going on a wild-goose chase, and I honestly don’t know if I’m strong enough to endure the pain when I don’t find him.
‘You know, you don’t have to go home . . .’ Jessie says thoughtfully.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You could stay here.’
‘Are you still banging on about me living with you?’ I tease. ‘Just because you can’t be arsed to advertise . . .’
‘You wouldn’t even have to pay rent,’ he continues.
‘Of course I would pay rent!’ I exclaim.
‘Not for the summer. I wouldn’t be getting rent from anyone else until September.’
‘My parents wouldn’t be too impressed if I didn’t go home . . .’ It’s a tempting thought, though, considering how upset I still am with Dad for letting Joe leave.
‘Think about it,’ Jessie says simply.
‘Okay. I will.’
I leave Jessie’s and walk quickly towards the city centre, dodging to avoid zillions of cyclists shooting past on the roads and tourists consulting maps in the middle of the pavement. My white sundress from yesterday is grubby after a day’s work, and I seriously need to have a shower and wash my hair. But it’s another warm and sunny day, plus it’s Friday and I’m looking forward to the weekend. Even the backstreets near the colleges are busier than usual and I consider heading over the river and walking along the Backs where it’s quieter. It’s a little out of my way, but King’s Parade will be heaving. Yes, I think I’ll do that.
I cut right, straight into the path of an oncoming cyclist.