A Kiss, a Dare and a Boat Called Promise

by Fiona Foden

  “Do they look friendly?” she asks.

  “Uh – not especially, Bells. Better go.”

  There’s no doubt that the two girls are heading straight towards me. They’re halfway across the park now, acting like they’re official patrollers of this place and I happen to be trespassing. I’m already working out what to say…

  I’ve as much right to be here as you do.

  I didn’t notice anyone selling entry tickets.

  No, you can’t have my phone. Are you kidding? It was the cheapest in the shop and my best friend’s dad accidentally drove over it with his truck when I left my bag lying on the ground. Look at it now – bent like a boomerang. Throw it and it’d probably come back. Amazingly, though, it still works…

  All of this sounds far braver than I feel inside. I glance over at the girls, who are both wearing sunglasses, tiny frayed denim skirts and little vest tops (there is some variation here. One top is white, scattered with silvery sparkles, while the other is the precise candy-pink shade that I went the moment I saw my knickers dangling from that tree by the lake). I cross my legs awkwardly on the warm concrete ramp, trying to look as if I belong.

  “Hi.” The girl in the white sparkly top is right in front of me now, and parks her tiny bum on the ramp beside me.

  “Hi,” I reply. She whips off her sunglasses and tosses back her long blonde hair. “Oh, it’s you,” I say as Chantelle-from-the-pub studies me coolly, her lashes so thickly mascara’d it’s a wonder she can actually blink.

  “Yeah.” She smirks. “This is my friend Gemma.”

  “Hey,” Gemma says.

  “Hey,” I say back, taking in her smoky eyes and poker-straight dark hair with dip-dyed reddish ends. My face is bare, as it always is (the only make-up I own is a lipsalve – does that actually count as make-up?), and I’m wearing a plain navy T-shirt, dark denim shorts and beaten-up canvas lace-ups. Will I ever fit in around here?

  Chantelle smirks at her friend. “This is Josie, the one I was telling you about.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Gemma says with a silly laugh. I’m now feeling as relaxed as if I were about to have a tooth pulled out.

  “Is that short for something?” Chantelle asks.

  “What, you mean my name? Yes – it’s short for Josephine.” My mouth feels as parched as the concrete all around us.

  “Oooh,” she sniggers. “That’s a funny name.”

  Is it really? Oddly enough, no one’s thought that before. “Yes, well, no one calls me that,” I explain.

  “Why not?” Gemma asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “Um … I don’t really like it.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Chantelle snorts. “It’s really old-fashioned, isn’t it? Josephine…” She repeats it in a put-on posh voice, and I squirm uncomfortably on the ramp. “Sounds like someone who’s about eighty years old!”

  “Hahaha,” Gemma cackles, and I try to raise a smile to show that I can take a joke, too.

  “So which school d’you go to?” Chantelle asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know yet. Mum’s trying to sort it out with the council.”

  She blinks those stiff, clumpy lashes. “You used to live on a boat, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s right…” Here we go: are you a gypsy then? Couldn’t your mum afford a house?

  “What, like at sea?” Chantelle giggles. “Is your dad a captain or something? Eww, I’d puke if I lived on a boat. I’d be barfing all day long.” She makes a dramatic vomiting noise and they both burst into peals of laughter.

  “It wasn’t a sea boat,” I say firmly. “And my dad’s—”

  “What did you do about the loo?” Chantelle cuts in.

  I blink at her. “Well, we had one on the boat.”

  “Yeah, but where did it go?”

  “Where did what go?” I frown at her, really confused now. What’s with the obsession with my old loo?

  “The poos and wees,” Gemma explains. “What happened to all that?”

  I’m now faintly distracted, as another life form has entered the park. It’s a huge, shaggy black dog with no visible features – like an enormous fluffy cushion with paws. I watch as it nuzzles what I think is its front end around an overflowing litter bin. “Did it go in the river?” Chantelle rants on. “Like, did it come out of a pipe and just float there? Ugh – poos in the river.” She covers her mouth with her hands. “That’s gross!”

  The girls are so fixated by all this loo talk, they haven’t even noticed the enormous, ownerless hound pottering around the park.

  “It didn’t go in the river,” I say in my most patient voice. “It just stayed in the loo.”

  “What, like, for ever?” Chantelle gawps at me. I focus on the biggest, blackest mascara clump, wondering if at some point it’ll ping off her eyelash, drop on to the concrete and sizzle in the sun.

  “Well … no. It stayed there, in chemicals, till we went to a special place to empty it.”

  “Ugh,” she shudders, glancing at Gemma. I’m feeling a little less intimidated now. Somehow, the loo conversation has made them both seem pretty ridiculous. I try to imagine them having to empty a chemical loo, or even trying to steer a boat, and can’t help smiling to myself.

  “Look, Chantelle,” Gemma mutters, pointing at the dog, who’s now plonked itself down on the hard concrete ground.

  “Oh my God.” Chantelle shrinks back. “I hate it when you see a dog with no owner. It could go mad and bite you.”

  The dog has now stretched itself out, and is basking in the sun. “It doesn’t look aggressive,” I venture, another smile tweaking my lips.

  “Yeah, but how can you tell? It must be a stray. It could be dangerous. Don’t dogs sometimes go crazy in the heat?”

  I’m trying not to laugh now as Chantelle leaps up, popping her sunglasses back on as if they’ll protect her from this clearly savage hound.

  “It must be boiling hot,” I suggest. “We should get some water from somewhere…”

  At that, Chantelle tugs hard on Gemma’s arm. “I’m not going anywhere near that thing. You can if you want. C’mon Gemma, let’s go.” Their sandals slap against the hard ground as they scurry away, and the park feels oddly still when they’ve gone.

  OK, they could be right. Maybe this dozy hound is really a dangerous beast, who’s just working up to ripping my arm out of its shoulder socket. I kind of doubt it, though. I get up and make my way towards it. Now I’m close enough, I can see that it does have a nose (black, shiny) poking out from all that fur, and its tongue is hanging out, too. The poor thing is panting. I sit on the hot, hard ground beside it and give its head a little stroke. So far, due to its outrageously fluffy coat, I haven’t been able to work out if it’s a he or a she. “Someone must be really missing you,” I say gently, noticing a flash of silver under its chin. It’s a little bone-shaped tag, and when I turn it over I can make out a name engraved on it: Daisy. There’s a phone number, too. Rather than call right away, I decide to wait, because Daisy has probably run off and her owner will be here any minute. But the longer I sit in the baking heat, the more obvious it seems that no one’s going to come. And she desperately needs a drink.

  “C’mon, Daisy,” I say, ruffling her soft black fur. “We’ll find you some water, OK?”

  Obediently, she gets up, still panting hard and trotting close to my side as we make for the park’s exit. There’s a river somewhere around here, Mum said – unbelievably, it eventually joins our river, where Promise used to be – but so far, I haven’t spotted it. I could take Daisy to the pub (can’t bring myself to say “home” yet), but what if Chantelle’s gone back there and makes a huge fuss? She’s obviously terrified of dogs. Anyway, they’re not allowed in the flat, otherwise we’d have Murphy with us, wouldn’t we? I glance down at Daisy, wishing she’d magically turn into a little wiry brown terrier, then fee
l guilty and stop to give her a hug.

  We’re in the alley now, and Daisy is still showing no sign of wanting to dash off – which is just as well, as I don’t have anything I could use as a lead. I crouch down and call the number on her tag, but it goes straight to voicemail: Hello, you’ve reached Jane Harper, please leave a message after the tone… The voice is posh, confident, important-sounding.

  “Er … hello,” I say hesitantly. “I’ve, er, found your dog, Daisy. At least, I think she’s yours – this is the number on her collar. I’m, um…” I glance around, having just reached the end of the alley. Where am I, exactly? There’s no street sign in sight. “Um … I’m quite near the Bald-faced Stag,” I finish in a rush, wondering why I’m not remotely intimidated by a huge, hairy hound, yet give me an answering machine to talk to and I can hardly string a sentence together.

  “So where to now, Daisy?” I ask her, slipping my phone back into my pocket.

  She peers at me through her messy black fringe.

  “Let’s get you some water,” I add, turning into the main shopping street. Still showing no sign of sinking her teeth into me, Daisy trots along at my side.

  We stop at a tiny newsagent’s, where a man peers suspiciously from behind a cluttered counter. “Wait here,” I tell Daisy at the entrance, digging into my pocket for the pound I stuffed in there and hoping she doesn’t run off. The shop guy takes what feels like a million years to give me a small bottle of water and my change, and when I run out of the shop, Daisy is waiting obediently for me.

  “Look,” I say, “I got you some water.” I frown, wondering how she’s going to drink it. Where’s a handy dog bowl when you need one? I spot a chip carton lying on the ground, tip out the greasy remains – which Daisy gobbles up in an instant – then fill it with water from the bottle. She laps gratefully, as if there wasn’t a single drop of water in her body. Then she looks up at me as if to say, “Can I have some more?” Only, that’s the whole bottle gone, and nearly all my money, too. I hold her by the collar as we cross the road to a small, oval-shaped patch of grass. As Daisy settles down at my feet, I perch on a bench and try the phone number from her collar tag again.

  “Hello?” comes the voice – a real person this time.

  “Er … hi,” I say. “I’ve got your dog here. I found her, wandering about on her own in the skate park…”

  “Did you?” the woman exclaims. “Where are you exactly?”

  I peer around until I spot a street sign. “Desmond Street … we’re on a grassy area in front of a flower shop.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she snaps, as if all of this is my fault. I glance down at Daisy and frown. Poor thing. No wonder she ran away if her owner is always this grumpy. “Hang on,” the woman adds, before muttering to someone in the background. I grip my phone, prickling with annoyance. Is anything more irritating than a person yakking away to someone else while they’re supposed to be having a phone conversation with you? “…Told you about keeping that gate shut,” she rants. “Whose idea was it to get this dog anyway? This had better be the last time this happens or she’s going back…”

  “Hello?” I shout into the phone. She doesn’t seem to hear me. She certainly doesn’t come back on and say, Sorry for being so rude. And thank you so much for looking after my overheated, panting dog and buying her a bottle of water. There are no thanks at all. It’s as if she’s forgotten I’m here.

  “Hi,” the woman says finally. “Someone’s coming to get her, all right? Won’t be long.” And she’s gone.

  “Thanks a lot,” I mumble, stuffing my phone back into my pocket and flopping down beside Daisy. The grass is all dried out and not especially soft to lie on, but I don’t care. As she snuggles close to me, all the worry and upset of the past week starts to fade away. Maybe because I’m missing Murphy, it feels good being close to a dog again. I don’t have to explain myself to her, and she won’t start prattling on about my old-fashioned name or what kind of loo we used to have.

  The traffic noises are strangely soothing as we lie together. I’m thinking, Maybe I should call Mum, I’ll do it in a minute … but I’m so drowsy in the sunshine, I can’t muster the energy to pull out my phone. There’s the buzz of an insect close to my head, and now I’m drifting, forgetting that I’m on a patch of city grass, surrounded by shops and cars and people. In fact, I’m almost imagining a slight rocking motion, as if I’m lying here not with a big fluffy dog but with Bella and Murphy on Promise’s deck…

  “Daisy! DAISY!”

  My eyes ping open. In a flurry of black fur, she jumps up and charges away. I jerk bolt upright, dizzy in the heat. Daisy is running full pelt, ears flapping, towards a dark-haired boy in jeans and a T-shirt. He’s standing there with arms outstretched, his face awash with delight. Sending him staggering backwards as she hurls herself at him, Daisy leaps up to cover him with wet doggy kisses.

  And … I can’t say I blame her. He’s greeting her as if they’ve been separated for years. I feel my stomach twist with shyness as I wait for the boy to notice me scrambling up from the ground and trying to brush bits of dried grass off my shorts and bare legs.

  “Silly girl, why did you run off?” he asks Daisy, ruffling her fur as she dances around him in delight. Then he stops and looks past her, straight at me. And that smile appears again, as bright and startling as a shooting star.

  It’s the boy with the bike.

  Oh no. Here it comes – that horrible whoosh of self-consciousness, turning me hot pink and incapable of acting like a normal person. “Was it you who phoned?” the boy asks, still all smiles as he saunters towards me, pulling Daisy’s red leather lead out of his pocket.

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug, like it was nothing.

  “Well … thanks. Most people wouldn’t bother.” He blinks at me, and I register his eyes. You couldn’t not, really. They’re an intense chocolatey brown, framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a boy.

  “Well, I didn’t want to leave her wandering about,” I say, twisting Bella’s ring between my thumb and forefinger. “If she’d left the park, she could have been run over.”

  The boy nods gratefully, and something like butterflies flit around my heart. “I know. We’ve only just got her and my little sisters aren’t used to having to keep the gate shut yet.” He chuckles softly, quickening my heart with another smile. “She’s a little escape artist. Trouble is, Mum seems to assume it’s me being careless…”

  “That doesn’t sound fair,” I suggest.

  “Yeah, well.” He clips Daisy’s lead on to her collar. “Guess that comes with being the oldest.”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Fourteen. That means I’m supposed to be –” he raises a brow “– the responsible one.” He laughs, and it’s catching; I’m chuckling too, forgetting about feeling awkward and shy. “I’m Leon,” he adds, “and you’ve already met Daisy. Not my choice of name, I might add. My sisters ganged up and won, even though I tried to rig the voting.”

  “So what would you have called her?” I ask as we sit side by side on the bench while Daisy sprawls at Leon’s feet.

  “Oh, I dunno – but something less girly, definitely… What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Josie,” I tell him, and this time there’s no, What’s that short for?

  “Nice name,” Leon says, and little seed of shyness starts up in my stomach, quickly swelling as a thought engulfs me: This is possibly the cutest boy I have ever met. And he saw me in my Dalmatian pyjamas. Does he even realize I’m the girl who was looking out of her bedroom window at night? Maybe he barely saw me at all…

  “You live at the Stag, don’t you?” Leon says.

  Ah. He saw me all right. “Er … yes,” I reply, my cheeks flaring up again. “So, um … what were you doing, cycling about in the middle of the night?”

  He pushes back his dark fringe. “Er …
it’s just something I like doing,” he says vaguely.

  But why? I want to ask as a shoal of questions flits around in my head. Leon glances at me. He has a few brownish freckles across his nose, and a mouth that constantly looks on the verge of a smile. “So,” he says, “how long’ve you been living at the Stag, then?”

  “We only arrived yesterday,” I reply.

  “Where did you live before?”

  I pause, slightly wary of another “Oooh – what happened to your poos and wees?” conversation, which would kind of ruin this moment for me. I decide to risk it. “We used to live on a boat,” I say.

  “Wow, did you? Where?”

  “Well, the nearest village to us, where I went to school, was called Issingworth.”

  Leon looks blank.

  “Better known as the middle of nowhere,” I add as Daisy nudges my ankle with her nose.

  “She likes you,” Leon laughs, glancing down at her. “So … from a boat to a pub. Why did you move?”

  Where on earth do I start? At the beginning, I guess – the day of our party on Promise and Tarragon, when it felt as if the whole summer was spread out in front of us… “And that was that?” Leon asks incredulously when I finally pause for breath.

  I nod. “The boatyard man said she was too rotten to be fixed, and we saw for ourselves when she’d been lifted out of the river.”

  Leon blows out air. “God, that’s awful.”

  I shrug. “Well, it was, but it’s happened and Mum says I should look on the bright side. It’s kind of hard, though, when I had to leave my best friend and my dog behind…” My phone trills in my pocket. “Hey, Mum,” I say, rolling my eyes at Leon in a here-we-go kind of way, even though she’s only asking where I am.

  “Better go,” he mouths, breaking into another heart-melting grin as he gets up from the bench.

  “Everything OK, love?” Mum asks. I glance at Leon as he leaves, smiling at the way Daisy keeps looking up at him as she trots at his side.