by Marie Browne
‘There you go then,’ Mary growled, putting the phone down. ‘Anything else you need?’ She bared her teeth at me in what might have been a smile, or a snarl to warn me that there’d better not be.
‘No, no, that’s brilliant, thanks – you’ve been really helpful,’ I stammered at her.
Narrowing her eyes at me in case I was being sarcastic (I wouldn’t dare), she then looked down at her paperwork.
‘When they get here, I’ll send ’em over.’ I had been dismissed; I turned to go, resisting the urge to bow myself backwards out of her office.
Collecting Sam from the wonders of the shop, I spent a couple of minutes telling him that no, he didn’t need the Rosie and Jim dolls to go with his duck, and, feeling Mary’s steely glare on the back of my neck, I ushered him quickly outside.
Crossing the car park toward the river, the smell of cooking bacon wafted effusively past us and I decided to surprise my poor, deprived husband with one of Gongoozler’s incredible bacon sandwiches. While they were constructing Geoff’s breakfast, I let Sam coerce me into letting him have a second breakfast as well. My hangover gave my stomach a good talking to about the danger of seductive smells and I decided that coffee was all I was going to get away with.
The restaurant boat was small but nicely set up, with eight tables, some with four chairs, some with two, nothing fancy, but clean and very classic with castles and roses painted on every available surface. I never did find out the owner’s name, but she was one of those people who always had a smile; she asked us how it was all going and then bustled off to cook.
Sam had obviously worked out that Mum was not 100 per cent up to par today and he had decided that some good behaviour might get him another chance to turn robots into chickens, so was quietly playing some complicated game with the crucible set. I basked in the sun coming through the window and was busy looking at the same group of young swans that we had been watching on our first night, mugging passers-by for titbits and musing that all they needed was a matching set of hoodies and they wouldn’t be that much different from human teenagers, when a group of four well-dressed thirty-somethings stepped loudly into the boat.
They were that arrogant type that usually frequent trains, talking loudly into mobile phones and to each other as though their conversation is the only thing that matters. The owner came out to take their order and, after loudly condemning everything on the menu (your loss, people), they settled for three teas and a coffee.
‘Make sure the cups are clean,’ one young man shouted down the boat toward the kitchen.
‘Isn’t this small,’ one woman giggled at the other, ‘I can’t believe people actually live on these things.’
‘Well, for the type of people that live on them, it’s probably a step up,’ the clean-cup man, sitting next to her, lectured. ‘Don’t forget, these people are basically river gypsies, there’s just no space for them on the roads any more so they’ve turned to the waterways.’
‘Yah, well the sooner they bloody get off them the better,’ clean-cup’s mate sneered. ‘My friend’s father had a lovely boat and one of these things ran into him, sank him outright, didn’t do a bit of damage to the stupid, crappy narrow boat – then they had the cheek to say that it was his fault, pulled in front of them or some rubbish. Why they didn’t just stop I’ll never know.’
If my hangover had been just a little less aggressive, I might have been just a little more forthcoming and put my oar in there and then, but as it was, I was content to just sit and listen as clean-cup poured out more and more rubbish about the ‘type’ of people that lived on narrow boats.
In the three months we had been searching for a new home, we had met and talked to possibly hundreds of boat dwellers, and the only thing they had in common was that they lived on a boat. We had met teachers, plumbers, office workers, writers, musicians, all manner of different people; all had different reasons for living where they did.
Our takeaway breakfast arrived just as I finished my coffee and just in time to stop Sam licking his plate clean. Giving one last look at the sniggering group, smug in their ill-informed superiority, my only thought was, ‘If your mate’s dad was as big an arsehole as you lot, I would have run into him, too.’
As I wandered down the tow path, buffeted by Sam’s normal erratic progress, I was struck by a sudden awful thought: was that how people would see me now? Would I be dismissed as a lowlife before people even took the time to find out who I was? It was a depressing thought, only slightly diminished by a short stab of guilt that I too, just a year ago, would have been exactly as biased as those that may judge me now. Ah karmic retribution, it’s almost guaranteed to bite you in the arse just when you expect it least.
By the time Sam and I got back to Happy, Geoff had emerged from the electrics and was making another list; he looked worried and harassed but brightened up considerably when he opened the bacon sandwich.
‘So, what’s the prognosis?’ I asked, hunting for yet more coffee.
He sighed around a mouthful of bacon, ‘Not good. The inverter is just too small to cope with our power demands, so we need a new one. The electrics have been seriously bodged and added to over the years and now they just look like a big ball of multicoloured string. The fridge doesn’t work, and it looks as though the battery bank could do with being replaced.’
‘Oh. How much is all that going to set us back?’ I picked up his list and winced at the prices that he had guesstimated. ‘A grand for an inverter! What’s it made of – gold?’ Raising my voice had set my headache off again and reaching for my fourth cup of coffee of the day I used it to wash down a couple of paracetamol. ‘And what sort of battery costs £350?’
‘Six of them.’ Geoff finished his sandwich, reclaimed his list and studied it again. ‘We could probably get a cheaper inverter but we use a lot of power and the computers will need a clean power supply. This inverter will give us 3kW which is double what we have at the moment. Yes, it’s the top of the range but we may as well buy it while we have the money; in a year’s time we may not.’
‘Good point,’ I conceded. ‘On an up-note, Mary found us someone to look at the hob; they should be here any minute.’
In actual fact, Geoff had managed to finish his breakfast and we were well on the way to having a full-scale row with Sam about chickens before they arrived. In the sudden flurry of introductions, explanations and tea-making, Sam made good his escape. Blatantly exploiting the situation, he had worked out that I was now too busy to have a family discussion about the dangers of computer games.
Watching him hightail it up the boat, I managed to take cold comfort from the likelihood that his sneaky tendencies would stand him in good stead when he was older; maybe he would have a career in politics.
I never actually managed to remember the engineers’ names, as they were immediately nicknamed Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but they were brilliant and an absolute cliché. On hearing about our woes, they set about wedging themselves into surprisingly small spaces for such large gentlemen; as they drank vast amounts of tea there was a lot of swearing and passing of strange tools about, but in due course the hob was disconnected and lay mournfully on the worktop in a puddle of diesel with its innards strewn about what passed for our kitchen. This is the point where the strange sucking-of-teeth noises started and, for every hiss and frown, the pound signs clicked up and up in my mind.
Eventually, Tweedledee extracted a copper something that had obviously snapped (even I could tell that it shouldn’t dangle like that).
‘There you go, that’s the bugger,’ he grinned, waggling it to and fro. ‘Funny thing, though,’ he continued, ‘this looks like it was like this when it was put in, it was snagged in the seal.’
Geoff frowned. ‘That doesn’t actually surprise me,’ he said. ‘This kitchen is weird, the hob’s damaged, the fridge doesn’t work, and the microwave is brand new. I’ve been wondering if this whole kitchen had been thrown in just for the sale of the boat.’
&nb
sp; ‘Why would they do that?’ I asked.
‘Well, you think about it,’ he leant on the wall. ‘This was one of a pair, all the cabins were on this one, and the galley and the saloon were on the other one. Why would anybody have a small kitchen taking up space in a boat where you need to sleep as many folk as possible? I don’t have any proof, but I think this was a cabin, possibly for the crew as it’s next to the engine room, and he has just slung a kitchen in for show and none of it actually works; mind you, we can’t really complain, for the price he accepted we should count ourselves lucky that there was anything here at all.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I fumed, ‘it’s going to cost a fortune to replace all this lot.’
Obviously a married man, Tweedledee stepped in before I could go off into ‘rant mode’.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not that bad, all we need to do is give Kuranda a call and they’ll have another one here by tomorrow. We’ll pop in and fix it and you’ll be on your way.’
I must have looked unconvinced because he continued, ‘No, no, really, they’re very good, the part will be in the office by tomorrow morning, you watch.’
He looked so sincere I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t Kuranda sending the part I was unconvinced about; it was them turning up again tomorrow to fit it.
The moaning and griping were interrupted at that point by a phone call from my mother to tell us that she and my father were bored and were coming down to see the boat; they would be with us in about an hour and a half.
Argh no, not in this state – hmm ... hang on a minute.
‘Great, we’d love to see you ... erm, Mummy darling, sweetie, lovey, most helpful mummy of all...’
Silence, then a sigh, ‘What do you want?’
‘You know that fridge you’ve got in the garage, the one you only use at Christmas?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can we have it please? The one on the boat is a dud – along with every other bloody piece of kitchen kit in here.’
‘What’s happened?’ My mother loves a disaster, and she always likes to step in and save the day – the trouble is she’s actually very good at it. (Mind you, dealing with my sister and me, she’s had years of practice.)
‘Well,’ I moaned, ‘let’s just say, the kitchen was a bit of a cardboard cut-out and didn’t actually exist.’
Mum laughed. ‘No problem, tell us all about it when we get there, us and the fridge. See you in about two hours – love you, byeee.’
And with that she was off, marshalling my father into action. Thinking about it, he probably didn’t even know he was going for a two-hour joy ride, let alone do some major weight-lifting as well. For just a brief moment I felt a bit guilty on behalf of my gender – good grief, it’s no wonder men have sheds. Then the guilt was gone in the smugness of getting a free fridge. One more problem solved.
During my phone call to Mum the engineers had made good their escape, and Geoff had his head stuck in the electrics again.
‘Mum and Dad are going to be here about 11 o’clock,’ I informed him. ‘Do you want to have a quick run round to the chandlers before they get here and pick up your solid gold inverter?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Your mum and dad are coming down?’ he asked.
‘Yep,’ I grinned, ‘and they have offered us the Christmas fridge, well, not so much offered as have given it up for the greater good – our greater good.’
Geoff was looking at me and nodding, but I could tell his brain was still wrapped in multi-coloured wiring.
‘Come on then, let’s go and spend a vast amount of money,’ I prompted, ‘and this thing better look like it’s worth it. I need a good paint job and a vast array of flashing lights for that price, oh and the lights better be blue or the whole deal’s off.’
Actually the inverter was a mucky yellow and about the size and weight of a large shoe box filled with rocks. It had just two lights (red ones) and didn’t look at all like £1,000 worth of kit, but Geoff was ecstatic about it, and buried himself in the instructions, making copious notes until my parents arrived. He showed it to my father who took one look and brightened up as well; both of them disappeared into the engine room to play with their new toy.
‘Well, that’s got rid of them,’ Mum mused gently. ‘Right, where’s my boy?’
Sam, on hearing Nanny’s voice, had turned off the PS2 and was walking slowly down the boat, thus giving him time to formulate a huge list of complaints. He hadn’t had any sweets for days and Mum and Dad were always soooo busy, no one was talking to him, and there were no toys to play with, and nothing to eat.
Mum listened to them all, her frown deepening with each wildly inaccurate whinge.
‘Aaoow, poor thing, why don’t we go out? Now that your mum’s got a fridge, I’m sure we should go shopping to find nice things to put in it and maybe some sweets for you as well, poor boy.’
Sam’s face fell. Aha, this should be interesting, I thought, he doesn’t want to go out and leave his game, but he knows that Nanny is good for sweets. I raised my eyebrows at him, and smiled, ‘If you want sweets, you have to come to the shops with us.’
‘No, no,’ Mum cut in, ‘you don’t have to come, if you’re all comfy, you can stay with Daddy and Grandpa, we’ll bring you back a surprise.’
I sighed; that was just what Sam wanted, thank you very much, Mother.
‘Thank you, Nanny,’ Sam fluttered his eyelashes at her and gave her his best smile (where do they learn to do that?) ‘I love you. Could you bring me a comic as well and maybe a toy?’ And without waiting for an answer, he whizzed off down to the front to continue his ‘chickenation’ of the world. I had lost, as usual.
‘Cup of coffee, Mum?’ I asked. She pursed her lips at the milk gently evolving in the late summer warmth.
‘Hmm, no thanks love, let’s go shopping.’
On our return, we found that Dad and Geoff had installed the fridge. I put everything away and set to making lunch. Sam tore himself away from his game again long enough to collect all his extravagant goodies from Nanny (we ‘are’ supposed to be going for a simpler life here) then disappeared back into his nest, but at least this time it was to play with toys and not the computer.
‘So what do you think then,’ I asked, indicating the boat.
‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ Mum looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Well actually, it’s horrible,’ she laughed, ‘but I’m sure it will be lovely when you have sorted it all out. Do you know what you are going to do to it?’ We wandered down the length of Happy and I explained what we hoped would go where. Dad and Geoff grabbed their lunch and disappeared back into the engine room with it. Sam refused to come out of the bow.
Mum and I, left to our own devices, sat on the bank with a picnic. It was strange, I had absolutely nothing to do and I couldn’t remember when I had last talked to her without having to clock-watch or be disturbed by phones ringing. We spent a happy afternoon under a tree, just chatting. Maybe there’s something to living in the slow lane after all.
Chapter Eight
No More Excuses,
We Really Have to Actually Travel
MUM AND DAD LEFT that evening at about nine. They had treated us to dinner and had generally been helpful and lovely. Maybe this time one of their children had rolled so far left field they couldn’t really help and had no advice, so all they could do was just sit back, watch and be ready to catch us if we fell. I know they were worried but had obviously discussed it between themselves and had decided to just smile and be supportive.
Watching them drive away, I was struck with a sudden homesick panic. What the hell was I doing, stuck on this floating bathtub, I shouldn’t be here, I can’t do this, I need to be looked after, I really, really want my mum. However, I didn’t have long to dwell on it, as Sam morphed into were-brat after eight o’clock and had to be coddled back to the boat and into bed. Geoff was in (he claimed) the final stages of getting the new inverter installed so he went back to the engine room.
‘How’s it going?’ I asked the soles of his feet. The opposite end stopped swearing for long enough to tell me exactly how it was going in full and colourful detail. ‘O...K,’ I backed off, ‘I’m going to read in bed, do you want anything before I go?’ I’d like to believe that what he said was, ‘No thank you, darling, thanks for enquiring, you go and have a bit of a lie-down, you deserve it’ but I don’t think it was. I went for that ‘bit of a lie-down’ anyway.
At two o’clock in the morning his cold feet woke me up. But at least it was cold feet and a tired smile. I went back to sleep knowing that tomorrow morning it would be safe to ask him about it and not get the wretched contraption thrown at me for my curiosity.
Geoff had been ‘telling’ me about it since we had got up. When Tweedledum and Tweedledee showed up with the new part for the hob, I was so surprised that they had actually come back, and so thankful that they had provided me with a reason to shut Geoff up for a bit, that I offered to make bacon sarnies for everyone. It only occurred to me after they had all gone to the engine room to make hissing noises at the new inverter that I couldn’t actually cook anything until they fixed the bloody hob. Oh well, another trip to Gongoozler’s it was then.
Two hours later, the hob was back in place, we were minus an actually rather reasonable sum of money; Tweedledee and Tweedledum, full of bacon and tea, had bumbled off to their next job. It finally occurred to us that we had no excuses left, we had to go.
We chatted for a couple of minutes over another cup of tea, both trying half-heartedly to find reasons to stay, but both of us were aware of what was really going on.
‘Are you sure you know how to get there?’ I made a last-ditch attempt to bury Geoff once more in his waterways maps. It was no good; he knew me too well.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘it’s only one o’clock. We’ve said thanks to the marina, they know we’ll pick up the cars in a couple of weeks, Sam is expected at school in 13 days’ time, the hob’s fixed, we have to go. Are you ready?’