A Kiss, a Dare and a Boat Called Promise

by Fiona Foden

  About the Author

  Fiona Foden grew up in a tiny Yorkshire village called Goose Eye. At seventeen she landed her dream job on a teenage magazine in Scotland, and went on to be editor of Bliss, More! and Just Seventeen magazines. She now lives in Lanarkshire, Scotland with her husband Jimmy and their children Sam, Dexter and Erin.

  When she’s not writing, Fiona likes to play her sax and flute and go out running with her mad rescue dog Jack. A Kiss, a Dare and a Boat Called Promise is her third book for teenagers.

  Also by Fiona Foden

  Life, Death and Gold Leather Trousers

  Cassie’s Crush

  For Lily D with love

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Do You Believe in Luck?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Acknowledgements

  Fiona Foden Q&A

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  I do – sort of. Maybe it’s because I live on a boat instead of in a house or flat. Boaters can be pretty superstitious – at least, the ones I know are.

  I don’t mean we concoct spells or have black cats prowling about on our boats. We’re just normal people who happen to live on water instead of land. But there’s one thing a boater would never do, and that’s change the name of their boat. It’s meant to bring bad luck. Ours is called Promise and, even if I woke up one morning with a wild urge to paint it over and change it to, I don’t know – “Primrose”, just for a joke – I wouldn’t actually dare. When your boat is also your home, you don’t want to risk anything bad happening, do you?

  But I believe in good luck too. Here’s a secret: I have a lucky tin. It’s old and scruffy with “Swallow’s Toffees” in gold lettering on its spotty blue lid. But it’s not the tin that’s important. It’s the stuff inside. There are drawings, notes and newspaper cuttings – things that belonged to my dad. When he died, Mum was so upset, she wanted to get rid of all of his things. She said she couldn’t bear to see them any more. Everything made her cry back then, and I didn’t want to make things worse. I did want some of Dad’s things, though, and I started to come across bits and pieces at the bottom of drawers, or slipped in-between the pages of books, almost as if they were waiting for me to find them. Without saying a word to Mum, or to my big brother Ryan, I secretly gathered everything up until the toffee tin was nearly full. I thought of it as my lucky tin, and as the months passed, life became brighter again, as if Dad was somehow looking after us. The other boaters rallied round to help us and a local hotel took Mum on as a chef. Then, best of all, a pea-green boat called Tarragon chugged down the river and moored next to us. It belonged to a cheerful couple who had a daughter called Bella. We became best friends straight away. I found a silver ring nestling in the grass on the riverbank, as if a magpie had dropped it, and I gave it to Bella so she has her own lucky thing too.

  It’s five years since Dad died, and Bella is still the only person who knows about my tin. I have my own cabin to sleep in, and under my bed there’s a loose bit of wood with a space underneath. That’s where I keep it, away from prying eyes. Most of the time Dad seems blurry in my mind, like a faded photo. But occasionally, when I get out my tin, he’s not blurry at all.

  Then he’s absolutely real.

  Sometimes, weeks go by and I don’t even look in the tin. But I always know it’s there.

  At last, it’s here. The final day of term and the real start of summer. Just a few hours to scramble through – we finish school early today – then freedom, for weeks on end.

  Morning light is filtering through the thin curtain at my cabin window. I can hear Mum pottering about, and there’s a slight rocking as another boat chugs by. Normally, I don’t notice the gentle swaying from side to side. You don’t when you live on water. When friends who have houses come to visit, they go, “Whoa!” and stagger about, throwing out their arms and acting all wobbly, as if we’re on a stormy sea instead of a quiet stretch of river which hardly ripples at all.

  Today, though, I do notice the rocking. I lie in my narrow wooden bed, as still as anything, until the sound of the passing engine dies away and it’s just Mum, chopping something in the kitchen.

  “Josie!” she calls out. “Come on – get up. You don’t want to be late for school on the last day.”

  Actually, I do want. What’s the point of the last day anyway? No one does any work…

  “Josie, it’s nearly eight o’clock!”

  OK, OK. But what about my hairy big brother? Isn’t it his last day too? I know he’s not out of bed either, because faint music is coming from his cabin.

  “And Ryan,” Mum barks, “if you don’t get up now, you’ll be going to school in your pyjamas.”

  She doesn’t mean that. Since he turned sixteen, Ryan has stopped wearing pyjamas to bed. Apparently, they are “immature”. After being intensely body-shy pretty much all of his life, he has also developed a habit of wandering about in his saggy old South Park boxers – even up on the deck, i.e., in public. Oh, and Promise has suddenly become “far too cramped”, he reckons. It is pretty small, but living here still suits me just fine (this might have something to do with the fact that I’m one of the shortest girls in year eight). Anyway, it’s hardly Promise’s fault that Ryan has sprouted from being a normal-sized boy to a great gangly giraffe of nearly six feet.

  I’m out of bed now, still in my “babyish” PJs (South Park pants are deeply mature, obviously), shouting “Coming!” to Mum. Then it’s straight into my normal getting-ready-for-school routine: white shirt on, plus black trousers, socks and black canvas lace-ups (not the most stylish of footwear, admittedly, but best for cycling to school). I peer into the mirror on my cabin wall – a few years ago I decorated it with glittery butterfly stickers, which I realize are far too girly for a thirteen-year-old – and tie back my long dark hair. It has a mind of its own if I leave it loose. I also remind myself that one day, I might actually be tall enough to see my reflection in the mirror without having to stand on tiptoe. What was Mum thinking, putting it up so high? Perhaps she thought it’d encourage me to grow faster – e.g., eat more vegetables, ha ha.

  “Ooh, you’ve made strawberry tarts,” I exclaim. “They look fantastic, Mum.” I’m in the kitchen now – our kitchen area, I mean, which is actually the far end of our living room, next to the five worn, wooden steps that take you up on to the deck. Towards the bow of the boat – the front end – ar
e our three separate cabins, and the loo and shower room, which is so tiny that Ryan can hardly fit into it any more.

  “Thanks.” Mum grins, her blue eyes glinting as she pushes back her wavy fair hair. “So they should. I was up at six this morning getting the pastry started.”

  Murphy, our wiry light-brown terrier, jumps out of his basket and nuzzles his head against my legs. I give him a hug and tickle, then go to grab a tart from the tray. “Hey, get your hands off, greedy.” Mum gently slaps my hand away. “Have cereal or something. These are meant to be for later.”

  “Go on, just one. I need to keep up my strength if I’m going to learn anything today…” Before she can say anything else, I’m cramming the sweet, fruity tart into my mouth, which, like some magical, strawberry-scented magnet, has the effect of drawing Ryan out of his cabin.

  “Tarts, great,” he mumbles, stuffing his face and squinting in the morning light, like a bear emerging from hibernation.

  “There’ll be none left for the party at this rate,” Mum says, although we know she doesn’t mean it. As soon as Ryan and I are out of her hair, she’ll be rolling and cutting and baking loads more, the aroma of pastry wafting down the river in a sugary blur. By the time we’re home, Promise will no longer be just an old wooden boat, and home to three people plus a scruffy dog, but a luscious-smelling, floating patisserie.

  I love the French name for cake shop. It’s so much more mouth-watering than plain old “bakery”, and you’d be amazed at the deliciousness that can come out of a tiny ancient oven on an even more ancient boat. Mum is a magical baker – she works part-time in a nearby country hotel where posh ladies meet for cream teas. Today, though, she’s staying here on Promise, getting the food ready and putting up the decorations. We have a party every year – not just my family but all the boaters who live here – on the day school breaks up for summer. That’s what it’s like on the river – parties, celebrations, all of us kind of living together but having our own space, too. We’re constantly in and out of each other’s boats, and I spend as much time on Bella’s next door as I do on Promise.

  “Josie? You ready?” Bella is on our deck now, peeping down through the hatch, her short blonde plaits sticking out from beneath her cycle helmet.

  “Yeah, coming,” I call back. There’s just time to give Murphy another belly tickle and Mum a quick hug. She doesn’t see me secretly cupping my hand around a tart for Bella. Ryan barges past me and hurries up to the deck, tearing off on his bike before Bella and I have even unfastened ours from the tree they’re padlocked to. These days, he’d rather die than be spotted cycling to school with me.

  I clip on my helmet and we set off, past the row of boats which are moored along our sleepy stretch of river, where I’ve lived my whole life. All the boats here are people’s homes, and we’re all friends – in some ways, we’re like one big family, which is great for me as I don’t have much family of my own. “Wish we could fast-forward the next five hours,” I tell Bella as we speed along the path.

  “Me too,” she agrees, her mouth still full of Mum’s tart.

  “D’you think many people will come this year?”

  “Oh yeah!” she exclaims. “Our parties are famous, aren’t they?” She’s right; after all, you don’t often see twelve boats all lit up with lanterns and people dancing on their decks. It was Bella’s mum’s idea to start having a huge party to celebrate the start of the summer holidays. Soon, all the boaters were joining in, even though most of them don’t have kids. Apart from Christmas, when there are yet more celebrations, it’s the highlight of our year.

  Filled with excitement now, we turn on to the tree-lined lane which leads to the village a couple of miles away. That’s where our school is. As five of us boaters go there (me and Bella, obviously, plus Ryan and his mates Tyler and Jake) there’s none of that, “Ew, you live on a boat, you’re a stinky water gypsy” stuff we hear about. Everyone’s used to the way we live. They don’t make a big deal out of it. In fact, I suspect some of them are even a tiny bit jealous that their homes can’t go anywhere.

  Bella and I start racing each other along the flat country lanes, and we’re actually on time for once (see, Mum? Not late on the precious last day after all).

  And somehow, the next five hours fly by until, in what feels like a blink, we’re cycling back home again towards the river.

  “It looks amazing!” I yell as the boats come into view. We can already see brightly coloured bunting strung between trees along the riverbank, and the sound of chatter and laughter drifts over the water towards us. There’s been more baking going on, too, the delicious smells making us cycle as fast as we can. Bella and I are laughing as we throw down our bikes and jump on to my boat.

  People are already gathering on the decks, which are all decorated with buckets of flowers and those little plastic windmills that spin around in the breeze. Music is playing, and our mums stop setting out plates of freshly made brownies on Tarragon’s deck and beckon us over to try them. Bella’s dad, Charlie, hands us cups of home-made lemonade, which we carry from boat to boat as we dart around, saying hi to everyone. People are playing guitars, tin whistles, bongos and flutes. Even Ryan, who’s officially far too old to be excited about anything our mums have organized, has grabbed a guitar and is joining in.

  I turn to Bella and smile. “Just think, we’re free for six and a half weeks.”

  “And you’re staying with us tomorrow night,” she adds, reminding me that Mum is taking Promise up the river to the boatyard tomorrow, where she’s booked in for repairs (that’s Promise, not Mum, that’s being fixed, by the way. A boat is always a “she” – I don’t know why but it feels right). It looks like there’s a small leak under our floor, as it’s a bit damp down there. We’re all praying it’ll be a cheap, simple job to fix it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just two nights, Mum reckons. She’s hoping to pick up Promise on Saturday.”

  “The longer the better,” Bella says with a grin. “I love it when you stay with us.”

  Then there’s no time to discuss it because Mum is asking me to fetch more drinks from our fridge, and Bella’s told to hand out plates of pastries. Soon jam-jar lanterns are lit, and the warm July evening is beautiful with flickering lights reflecting off the river. The party has spread along the line of boats to the huge red one at the end, where Ryan’s mates Tyler and Jake live. Even the oldies are joining in, like Maggie and Phil, whose scruffy old barge Mucky Duck attracts any stray cat looking for cosy spot by their stove. When Ryan, Tyler and Jake carry guitars and drums on to the riverbank for an impromptu performance, everyone gathers around and cheers. The sky darkens, and some of the adults are definitely tipsy by now. Everyone just laughs and cheers when, for a dare, Tyler strips down to his boxers and plunges into the river.

  “What a party,” Mum says later, grabbing my hand.

  “The best ever,” I agree, hugging her. Although she’s smiling, her eyes are gleaming wet in the moonlight, and I know she’s thinking, Your dad would have loved this. I know he would, too. Then Bella yells for me to join her on her deck, where music is being cranked up again, and people I don’t even know, who the other boaters have invited, are all dancing and asking, “So when’s the next one?”

  It’s nearly two in the morning when the party finally fades and I crawl into bed. Although I’m exhausted, it’s impossible to drift off to sleep, so I get up and reach for the loose bit of wood under my bed. I lift it away and fumble for the tin.

  Back in bed, I prise off the lid and take out the book of drawings Dad made when he was little. There are only eight pages, frayed at their edges and held together with a rusty staple. On the cover he’s written “The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World”. Then on each page he’s drawn – in pencil, so it’s pretty faded – these amazing places like the Egyptian pyramids and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. And at the bottom of the back page he’s written his name, Davy L
ennox, age nine. I love imagining him sitting there, drawing this book, the way I spent hours with pens and paper when I was younger, because we’ve never had a TV on Promise.

  Like I said, I don’t often feel sad that Dad’s not here. Because if I want to feel close to him I just look at his Wonders of the Ancient World book, and all the photos and yellowy newspaper cuttings about him winning various cross-country races. In one photo he’s on a track, in a vest and shorts, his dark hair flying and a look of pure joy on his face.

  He was a runner, my dad, and an artist too. And he’s as real to me as Charlie, Bella’s dad, is to her.

  I slip out of bed, put the tin in its hiding place and snuggle back under my covers. Charlie is still strumming his guitar on Tarragon’s deck, and Bella’s mum, Kate, is singing. As my mum joins in, a single thought fills my head:

  Today was perfect. This is going to be the best summer ever…

  That feeling’s still there as I open my eyes, and the squawk of a duck tells me that morning has come.

  I’m bleary as anything as I get dressed in jeans and a stripy T-shirt. “Josie! Ryan! Come on, lazybones,” Mum calls out. “I need some help to clear this place up. I told the boatyard guy that Promise will be with him by lunchtime so we really need to get a move on…” I emerge from my cabin, yawning loudly. “Are you sure you’re happy to stay behind and hang out with Bella today?” Mum asks. “We’ll be back by early evening.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I reply.

  “Can’t we set off later?” Ryan has appeared from his cabin. “It’s the holidays, Mum. I need a lie-in…”

  “Let’s just get this place sorted,” she says, shooing Murphy away from a spillage of crisps on the floor.

  “Do I have to come with you?” Ryan groans.

  “Yes, you do,” Mum retorts. “I need your help. Remember, it’s a lot further than Frank’s yard.” Frank owned the nearest boatyard to us; it was where we always took Promise for repairs. He used to give me and Ryan lollies you could use as whistles, and we’d be allowed to clamber all over the boats which had been lifted out of the river by the huge, rusty crane.