by Kim Slater
I’ve always wanted to have a look inside a proper narrowboat like the ones you see chugging up and down the Trent, but I don’t want to encourage Amelia. She’s so full-on and confident, she sets my teeth on edge.
‘Come on, we’re not a family of vampires, honest. There’s just me, my little brother and my mum.’
‘OK,’ I hear myself say, and I stand up.
‘It’s just down here.’ She slips in front of me and moves quickly ahead on strong, striding legs. She’s wearing battered Converse trainers.
‘Do you live around here?’ I say to her back.
‘Nah, we’re from just outside London originally. We go all over the place though.’ She turns round and grins at me, walking backwards without slowing down. ‘Never been to Nottingham before. Probably won’t come again, if everyone’s as miserable as you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Only joking, mate. Have a laugh.’
She says ‘laugh’ like ‘larrf’. She’s about halfway between being irritating and fascinating.
‘It’s just here, round this bend.’
We walk a few more steps and a glossy red-and-blue-painted narrowboat comes into view.
‘There she is: My Fair Lady. That’s her name, see.’
Plants and flowers in misshapen, brightly painted china pots clutter and spill from the top of the boat. A man in navy dungarees bends over, prodding at something mechanical with a spanner.
‘Ma!’ Amelia calls, waving both arms in the air.
The man stands up and steps off the boat, wiping his hands on an oily rag. Except when we get closer, I see that the man is a woman. Must be Amelia’s mum.
‘There you are, love; wondered where you got to. Found a new friend, have you?’
I feel my cheeks heat up. Amelia turns to look at me and laughs.
‘I don’t think he’s made his mind up yet so don’t scare him off.’
Amelia’s mum runs her hand through her dark blonde cropped hair and sticks out a grubby hand. ‘I’m Sandy.’
I move to shake her hand and she snatches it away.
‘Sorry, I can’t help it,’ she says, grinning. ‘One of my favourite tricks, that one.’
I wait until they’ve finished laughing.
Fifteen minutes ago I was sitting quietly on a bench, thinking about the good times I had down here with Grandad, and now somehow I’ve ended up stuck with these two jokers.
‘His name’s Calum,’ Amelia says. ‘He wants to look at the boat.’
‘She asked me to,’ I say quickly. Amelia is making it sound like it was all my idea.
‘No worries.’ Sandy grins. She’s got the same shower of freckles on her lightly tanned face as Amelia. ‘But I’ve got this generator dismantled now, so come back tomorrow, Calum, and Amelia will show you round then, OK, love?’
I glance at what look like engine parts, spread all over the front of the boat behind Sandy.
‘Will you come back down tomorrow, Calum?’ Amelia steps in front of me so I can’t move. ‘Promise?’
‘OK.’ I nod.
She steps aside and watches me walk away. When I get to the bend in the canal, I look back. It feels like I’ve had a lucky escape.
Amelia is still watching. She waves, but I don’t wave back.
Most people would probably be glad they’ve got a day off, even if it’s because they’ve been excluded. But I’d rather be at school.
I never get any hassle there because nobody messes with Linford and Jack, not if they want to keep their teeth.
School is warm and I get a hot meal every lunchtime. Plus, I get to hang around at the edges of the action and watch what the others get up to.
Being stuck in lessons beats dashing to the corner shop at eleven o’clock at night to top up the electricity meter card when the lights go out. Or poking a metal coat hanger down the drain to unblock the shower for the hundredth time.
Sometimes there’s stuff to do that won’t wait until Dad gets back.
He works all over the place – up north, down south and, since Christmas, he’s even been going across to Poland once a fortnight.
I bet you’re wondering what Dad does for a living. Well join the club, because even I’m not sure. I used to question him about it but he’d just wink and say, ‘If anybody asks, just tell them I’m in imports and exports.’
Sometimes, if he’s back home for more than a couple of days, he takes on handyman jobs locally, but that doesn’t happen too often because he’s back and forth so much.
These days I don’t bother asking questions; I just wait for him to come back. He tries to make up for being away so much then. He takes me out for a pizza, or sometimes we order a takeaway and watch the footie.
When he’s home for two or three days, he starts trying to lay down the law and it bugs me that I’m supposed to just flip back to being a kid again.
‘Get your room cleared up; it’s a doss-hole.’
‘This whole flipping flat’s a doss-hole, haven’t you noticed?’
‘Don’t give me that lip, remember who the gaffer is around here.’
Yeah, right. Until the next time ‘the gaffer’ goes on a job again. Then I’ll be back to playing Mr Fix-It again, whether I like it or not.
‘Don’t say nothing about nothing to nobody,’ Dad always warns me before he leaves for his next job. ‘We don’t need other people sticking their noses into our business; we can cope just fine on our own.’
Or at least that’s what he used to say, before everything changed.
Before those two turned up and ruined everything.
But I’ll get to that later.
I make myself beans on toast for lunch and watch a bit of TV, but by two o’clock I’m bored out of my skull.
I keep thinking about Amelia and her narrowboat.
I promised her I’d go back but I probably won’t. She’s irritating and, anyway, what would my mates say if they found out I’d been hanging around with a girl?
I could just go for a walk though, I reason with myself.
Anyway, why should I stop going down the canal just in case Amelia’s on the prowl? I’ve lived here for years, which gives me more right. She just got here. Besides, she’s probably not in, if her mum has already got her into a local school.
I’m not usually around in the middle of the afternoon and the canal path is quiet today – even the fishermen are scarce. One or two cyclists zip by and an old man and his equally old dog both dodder past me, but apart from that, it’s peaceful and serene.
I sit on a bench and watch the water ebb and flow for a bit, but my insides feel itchy, like I’m full of marching soldier ants and it’s hard to sit still for very long.
I decide to have a walk down and see if My Fair Lady is still moored past the bend. Just in case she’s in, I could knock on the door, if that’s even what you’re supposed to do with boats. Then again, I probably won’t knock. I don’t want Amelia thinking I’m desperate to be her friend or that I like her or something.
The air is warmer and dryer than yesterday, and the water, although still deep and dark, doesn’t seem quite as dense and oily today.
‘You came back!’
I turn round to find Amelia and Sandy walking up behind me, carrying bags of what looks like food shopping. A wide grin spreads on Amelia’s face.
I stop walking and stick my hands into my jeans pockets, kicking at the dirt path. My heart starts to thud.
‘No school today, Calum?’ Sandy asks as they draw level with me.
‘No, I . . .’ I don’t want Amelia’s mum to get the wrong impression so I stretch the truth a bit. ‘There’s a staff training day today.’
‘In the middle of the week? That’s unusual.’ Amelia grins at me and I look away.
I could ask her the same question. Surely she should be in school if they’re staying here? I offer to carry one of the heaviest bags instead and Sandy lets me.
We set off walking again and soon the boat comes into view.
<
br /> ‘There she is,’ Amelia sings. ‘The prettiest narrowboat in the land.’
They both have this weird habit of talking about the boat like it’s a living thing.
I can’t deny it is eye-catching. The main body of the boat is painted in a glossy, deep racing green with blue sills and bright red trims. Loads of bright, strong colours together ought to be too much, but somehow it works.
Dad would call it ‘gaudy’.
‘Thanks for helping us lug the supplies back,’ Sandy says. ‘Do you want to stay for some tea, love?’
‘Oh go on, Calum,’ Amelia pleads. ‘Ma’s making her spicy vegetable tagine. It’s awesome. And you can meet Spike and—’
‘Give the lad a chance to reply!’ Sandy laughs.
‘OK.’ I shrug, feeling my cheeks start to burn again. ‘Thanks.’
Thick ropes tether the boat to the rusting iron mooring rings dotted along the bank. My Fair Lady seems to shudder a little on the water as we approach her, as if she knows we’re there.
Sandy clambers on first, dumps the bags on deck and reaches her hands out to take our bags.
‘Come on.’ Amelia jumps on to the boat next and I follow her. I can feel the subtle movement of the water in my stomach but My Fair Lady feels solid and reliable under my feet.
‘Welcome aboard, Calum. Go and have a look around, love,’ Sandy says.
Inside, the boat is long and narrow, as I expected. It is warm and feels friendly and cosy.
‘Here she is.’ Amelia wafts her hand around. ‘This is home.’
Every inch of available space on the walls is filled with something. There are both useful and decorative objects hanging or stacked together. White nets at the windows give privacy from the towpath, and orange-and-purple-checked curtains add even more colour.
At the far end of the boat, a black cast-iron wood-burner dominates the inside space; red-hot embers glow through the sooty glass panel.
The kitchen area is tiny, its wooden cupboards painted in mint green. Shelves piled high with mismatched crockery are partly hidden by a checked curtain.
‘On a boat you call it the galley, not the kitchen,’ Amelia tells me.
Floral mugs in different colours and shapes hang higgledy-piggledy from a row of brass hooks under the wall cupboards, and a cobalt blue kettle gives off a low whistle as it simmers on the back burner of a gas hob.
Amelia opens the little fridge and pours us two glasses of readymade strawberry milkshake.
‘Let’s go and sit down,’ she says.
We take the drinks to the other end of the boat near the wood-burner. A long, thin couch runs along one wall and is piled up with patchwork blankets and cushions. It feels like I’m sitting on a squashy beanbag.
‘So, are you here on holiday?’ I ask, slurping the milkshake and savouring the sharp tang of strawberry on my tongue. ‘I mean, where do you actually live?’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Amelia grins. ‘We live on My Fair Lady. We live in lots of different places.’
I frown, trying to get my head around it.
She points to a decorative plaque above her head: Home is where one starts from.
‘That’s a T. S. Eliot quote. It means home is anywhere you want it to be, I suppose. It doesn’t have to be in one set place.’ She scowls at my blank face. ‘You know who T. S. Eliot is, right?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘Sort of.’
She grins. ‘He was a poet and a playwright.’
‘Right. So, if you’re living all over the place, which school do you go to?’
‘Ma homeschools us,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Me and Spike. The lady on the boat next door is watching him while me and Ma popped to the shop.’
The small door at the other end of the boat slides open and a small, wiry boy of about seven bounces towards us, barefoot and dressed only in a pair of shorts.
‘Calum, meet my brother, Spike.’
‘Hello,’ I say, keeping my hands firmly around my glass. I’m not going to fall for the handshake trick a third time.
‘Is this your boyfriend, Mimi?’ The lad looks me up and down.
‘No!’ I feel my face flood with colour.
‘Just a mate.’ Amelia grins. ‘Cheeky little rat. Say hello.’
‘Hello,’ Spike says. He sits down next to me, too close. I want to inch a bit further along but he fixes me with the brightest emerald green eyes I’ve ever seen and I can’t look away.
His dark blond hair is long and hangs raggedly on his shoulders. He’s got this outdoorsy smell about him – not dirty, just fresh and energetic. If energetic even has a smell.
‘So, as I was saying, Ma homeschools us and we travel around the country. We never stay anywhere longer than two weeks.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cos Ma’s only got a short-term licence. We have to keep moving. It’s the law, don’t you know.’ Amelia screws up her nose.
‘So you can’t just moor up and live in one place?’
‘Not unless we get a residential licence, and they’re in very short supply, hardly anybody gets them. The authorities think they own the water, the sky, the air we breathe. We have to ask if we can stay here because it supposedly all belongs to them.’ Amelia has stopped looking mischievous and now her brown eyes are big and serious. ‘How can that be right?’
By the end of the week we’ve all served our exclusion time and it is business as usual back at school.
Mr Fox announces we have a special Friday whole school assembly. Everyone shuffles into the hall and the noise level rises as we all discuss what it might be about.
‘I’m pleased and proud to introduce a very special guest,’ he beams from the front. ‘My talented son Hugo.’
We all groan. Mr Fox wheels his ‘talented son Hugo’ into school at least once a term to tell us what a wonderfully good actor he is and how we can all aspire to be like him, even though we’re so obviously poor with few prospects.
‘Wake me up when he’s finished yacking,’ Jack says with a yawn.
‘I’m here today to tell you that my success is nothing to do with privilege.’ Hugo strides up and down at the front of the hall. He’s warming to the task now and gesticulating wildly with his arms. ‘I’m a respected local young actor because I’ve worked hard.’ Mr Fox stands next to him like a nodding dog. ‘Some of you could achieve too, if you’re willing to persevere. Though I do appreciate that living around here on the estate, success must sometimes seem a million miles away.’
With the expressions on their faces, one or two of the teachers look as if they’re sick to death of listening to Hugo Fox, too.
‘I’m lucky enough to go to a private drama school in the city,’ he drones on. ‘But you have great facilities right here on the estate, and I have some very exciting news to announce.’ He stops talking for a moment and I almost expect there to be a drum roll. ‘I’m going to be running some free drama workshops at the Expressions community centre. We might even be able to get some real actors and film directors in to speak to students—’
‘Hugo is very kindly giving his time to help young people in disadvantaged areas,’ Mr Fox interrupted, beaming at his son. ‘I would encourage you all to take advantage of this.’
‘Young people like you,’ Hugo declares, throwing his hands out to us. ‘You can work towards a better life right now.’
It all sounds like a cheesy advert on the telly.
But film directors coming in to speak to us . . . now that might be interesting. If only they thought we really had a chance.
★
INT. EXPRESSIONS COMMUNITY CENTRE – SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Young people from the local area are gathered, listening to a famous film DIRECTOR speak.
DIRECTOR
(enthusiastic)
So, let’s talk about job goals. There are lots of different jobs in the film industry. Roadies, acting extras, catering staff, hair and make-up; you get the idea. Anyone here interested in working in the indust
ry?
Nobody raises a hand. DIRECTOR scans crowd, his eyes settling on a BOY. He points at him.
DIRECTOR
You there. What do you want to do with your life?
Everyone turns to look at the BOY. BOY’s face reddens. He looks at his hands and stays silent.
DIRECTOR
Come on, don’t be shy. Everyone has dreams, what’s yours?
BODY
(nervously)
I want to write screenplays.
BOY thinks he sees a tiny smirk play around DIRECTOR’s lips.
DIRECTOR
(winking at crowd)
Did you say ‘screenplays’?
BOY
Yes. Screenplays for movies. Movies with big budgets and top actors.
There is a faint ripple of laughter behind him.
DIRECTOR
And where do you live, boy?
BOY
I live here, on the estate.
DIRECTOR
And have you ever been to Hollywood?
BOY
No.
DIRECTOR
And do you know anyone in the industry, any screenwriters or contacts that can give you a break?
BOY
No.
DIRECTOR
And are your parents sending you to drama school?
BOY
No.
DIRECTOR
Well, all I can say then is good luck with that one.
DIRECTOR throws back his head and bursts out laughing.
Loud, roaring laughter erupts from the crowd. Laughing residents from the estate gather at the open doors. The BOY spots his own dad at the back. He’s wiping his eyes and laughing.
The sound of laughter is deafening.
BOY slopes away, pushes his way out of the crowd and leaves the building.
END SCENE.
★
I force my attention back to the room.
‘So, is anyone here interested in coming along?’ Hugo asks. ‘I’ll be taking names at the end and you’ll be guaranteed a place.’