by Nigel Smith
Nat thought Dad did not look very NOW. He looked very THEN.
She had seen fading photographs of her grandfather at the seaside, way before she was born, when Dad was a little boy. Her grandfather was wearing a string vest and a little knotted hanky too. Everyone who had seen the photo had laughed at him, even Dad.
And now it looked like Nat was sailing through France with that man from the photo, giving everyone that saw him a good chuckle.
So no, Nat was not ever so relaxed. She should have been; she was on a sort of cruise, on a properly beautiful canal, on a genuinely lovely sunny day.
But in fact, she was ever so very tense. She had way too much to worry about. She had even come up with a MASSIVE list of things she should be worrying about.
NAT’S LIST OF THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT:
Dad was letting Darius steer the barge. This was clearly INSANE. When she had pointed this out to him – with only a little bit of shouting – Dad had argued that Darius was so fidgety that it was safer to keep him busy. Nat was sure Dad was just being lazy. (She heard a big slurp as Dad chugged down a massive glass of pop and flicked through his DIY book. Yup, she thought, lazy lazy lazy.)
Suspicious Mick had seen her. Worse, he had seen Darius and the Dog. They were not supposed to be in France. Nat had seen a war film where people who were not supposed to be in France got shot. OK, those people were spies, but it was still a worry.
If they ever DID get to Posh Barry’s stupid, falling-down house, bodger Dad was going to kill himself to death putting his fingers in a socket, or sawing his own leg off.
She had to do LOO WATCH twenty-four hours a day, at least.
She needed to make ANOTHER list just to cover all the normal embarrassing things Dad was obviously going to do, not to mention Darius!
“I’ve come up with an idea to make us a fortune so we can spend all our time doing this,” Dad said, sucking thoughtfully on his pen. He’d managed to chew the top off and his teeth had gone inky black. “I’m going to write a book about giving up our busy life in England—”
“Busy?” laughed Nat. “OUR busy life? Mum’s busy, and I’m busy, but you’re not.”
“I’m going to write the true story of how we gave it all up to live the free and easy life on the canals. I just need a title to get me started.”
There was a horrible shrieking noise from the front of the boat, and a whoop of laughter from Darius. A cloud of white feathers shot up over the wheelhouse.
“Ah yes,” said Dad, “that’s it. Sailing Over Swans.”
“We’ve been on the canals for about two hours, Dad,” said Nat. “You’re not going to get much of a book out of that.”
“I might have to pad it out a bit,” Dad admitted, “and use my imagination, but everyone does that. You don’t think travel writers actually go to all those places, do you?”
“Yes, I think they all do. I think that’s the point.”
She could tell Dad wasn’t really convinced. He went back to scribbling and pen sucking and teeth blackening. Nat hated it when Dad tried to write a book. It happened every so often, usually when Mum shoved a bunch of red bills under his nose and asked him where he thought the money was coming from.
Dad would put on his red velvet jacket and spend the next week staring out of the window holding a pen. She could never bring her friends home when Dad was trying to write because he spoke to them in a writer-y way.
Penny Posnitch hadn’t been round since Dad told her that her ‘dark tresses cascaded down her back like a flock of elks down a mountain’.
“He was just being poetic,” explained Nat with a sigh.
“I don’t care,” said Penny. “I spent ages blow-drying my hair, and anyway, elks don’t flock.”
Finally Dad would print out a few chapters and send them off to publishers. Then he would sit around reading car magazines, deciding which sports car to buy after he’d become a massive bestselling author.
A few weeks later, he’d get the usual reply that would basically say: STOP WASTING OUR TIME, LOSER. The car magazines got chucked in the bin and Dad would go back to writing Christmas cracker jokes and hiding the red bills under the cushions.
Nat went and sat with her feet dangling over the side of the barge for a while, watching the ripples in the water. She told herself she had far too much to worry about to enjoy herself. But she WAS in grave danger of enjoying herself, she admitted reluctantly.
She munched on a rather lovely cheese baguette Dad had bought from the café that morning that she had to admit tasted OK. She sat with Dad for a while, looking at little white farms in the distance, or the flowing rows of green grapes, and ignoring the revolting sounds of Darius practising his long-distance spitting.
Finally the sun began to go down. Nat lay on a long cushion on the deck and stretched out. She heard the pop of a cork as Dad opened a bottle of wine. The Dog padded over and curled up next to her. Despite all the stuff she had to worry about, her eyelids grew heavy, and she began to drift off into a deep relaxing sl—
Nat came round to the sound of a loud bang.
“Who put that sandbank there?” shouted Darius.
“Hueeerk,” said Dad, who was hanging over the side, losing his baguette. “Sun and wine and boats make me feel a bit … bleeeark.”
Nat sighed.
By the time Dad had recovered it was dusk. The barge seemed to have come to a standstill, so they decided to stay for the night.
at woke early, with misty pale light slicing through the yellow curtains in her little cabin. She lay there, confused for a second, wondering where she was. There was birdsong everywhere and she had a lovely floating feeling. Sleepily, she opened her curtains.
The canal was steamy and magical in the young light. She saw a row of ducks and then even a shimmering kingfisher, so close she could have almost touched him. She followed him with her eyes, entranced, right up until the moment she saw Darius weeing in the canal.
She shut the curtains and put the quilt over her head.
She was woken for the second time by Dad frying bacon. The three of them munched their breakfast on deck, watching the world go by. They were still stuck on the sandbank but no one felt like trying to start the horrible engine.
Finally, Dad said the dreaded words: “Righto, I suppose we should get going then.”
“Can we wait until no one’s looking?” said Nat.
“It’s getting busier,” said Dad, “so the sooner we try the better.”
There is a thing called ‘beginner’s luck’, which Nat thought was the only explanation for the way they slipped off the sandbank, with no fuss. Only one man in a canoe was overturned. Nat thought that was a bit of a triumph.
In fact, they pootled slowly down the slow, wide canal all morning and NOTHING TERRIBLE happened. Nat knew it just meant Dad was saving up for a big one.
She was right.
By the afternoon the canal was surprisingly busy. There were many more boats of varying shapes and sizes. There were long slender wooden barges painted blues and greens, decorated with buckets of flowers. There were large pointy plastic-white boats, sailing boats with high elegant sails, and fat little chugging boats that rolled and bobbed through the water.
They all have one thing in common, thought Nat. NOT ONE is more ugly than ours. Dad, you’ve done it again.
A few people to waved at La Poubelle, while most looked at the barge with alarm. Nat pulled her big floppy sunhat down over her face.
“We must be coming up to a big town,” said Dad. He peered at the map. “We’re either here –” he pointed to a town – “or possibly this different town here …”
They were coming into the sort of large town that guidebooks and articles in posh magazines bang on about endlessly. ‘Oooh, it’s very authentic,’ they say, which just means ‘real’, but means it in a posher way.
Nat knew that other words to watch out for in guidebooks included:
HISTORIC, which means: ‘Boring – avoid unless y
ou want to be dragged around a toothbrush museum, cold church or (aaaargh!) ancient ruins.
LIVELY, which means: ‘Full of drunks and so noisy you’ll need to shove your head in the wardrobe to get some sleep.’
TRANQUIL, which means: ‘Dead – up a mountain with only a goat for company.’
On the other hand:
DISAGREEABLE, NOTHING HERE WORTH A VISIT, means: ‘Normal – proper shopping centre, cinemas, possibly even arcades and definitely plenty of delicious fried chicken takeaways. Go go go.’
However, a proper guidebook would at least have told Nat that tonight, in the town they were heading for, was the River Regatta.
The River Regatta was basically a floating fun fair, parade, boat race and huge party all in one. Tourists loved it and the tourist officer who had come up with the idea had been elected deputy mayor.
Everyone is welcome! said the posters on the walls and billboards they sailed past. Of course, Nat couldn’t ask Dad what they meant because he couldn’t read French, even though he pretended he could. They might just as easily be saying:
Stop and turn around! Massive waterfalls/sea serpents/whirlpools of doom coming up – if you’re very lucky you might get away with only being lightly killed!
They followed the canal right through the centre of the town. High brick walls loomed either side of them. Nat could hear cars and people and music coming from behind the walls. Boats were moored on little platforms on both sides of the canal. Dad slowed the engine right down. And then, ahead of them, two massive lock gates, like doors to a giant’s castle, blocked the way. Dad looked nervous.
“What do we do now?” said Nat.
“Food,” said Darius, sniffing the air. Nat realised she was ravenous. A lovely cooking smell drifted towards them. “Let’s park.”
“Genius idea,” said Nat. “Um, Dad … you do know how to park, don’t you?” she asked.
Dad shifted uncomfortably in the wheelhouse and gave the wheel a turn experimentally. “I don’t suppose it’s much different from parking a car,” he said.
“You’re hopeless at parking a car,” said Nat.
“Reverse into a parking space, that’s what Oswald says when he’s driving My Filthy Granny’s van,” said Darius, and pulled the lever to slam the engine into reverse. The water churned behind the barge and it began moving backwards, slowly at first, then with gathering speed.
Nat looked at Darius in alarm. “I NEED pizza,” he explained. “Or fried chicken. Or fried chicken pizza.”
Nat drooled at the thought. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “Hurry up, Dad. Darius will be putting the Dog between two slices of bread soon.” The Dog slunk down the stairs into the cabin.
“Find me a parking space then,” said Dad, grabbing the wheel. “It must be easier than parking at the supermarket. I can’t bash anyone’s headlights out.”
“No, but you could sink a load of boats,” said Nat, as Dad missed a little white yacht by centimetres.
“Why did you say that?” said Dad. “I’d just got my confidence up.”
“Left a bit, Dad,” shouted Nat. Dad swung the wheel. The boat went right. “The other left,” shouted Nat, before spotting an empty platform. “There’s a space. I think you just kind of slowly crash into it and then tie it up.”
“Crashing’s easy,” said Dad. “So you do the crashing and I’ll do the tying up. I’m good at knots. I got a Scout badge.” Nat got into the wheelhouse nervously. “You sure, Dad?” she asked.
“Yeah, just take the wheel. When I say brake, put the brake on.”
Nat looked around. There was a wheel, a couple of broken dials and a gear lever. Nothing looked like a brake.
“Where’s the brake?” she asked, voice rising in panic. “Dad, the brake?”
“I don’t remember anyone mentioning a brake,” said Dad.
“There isn’t a brake on a boat,” Darius said.
“Oh,” said Dad, “how do we stop then?”
“If we slam the engine forwards, it will stop us going backwards,” said Darius.
“Brilliant!” said Dad, hopping into the wheelhouse. “Let’s do that.”
“But then we’ll be going forwards,” said Nat.
“One problem at a time,” said Dad. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“A bridge too?” wailed Nat. “It gets worse.”
“It’s just a saying,” said Dad, slamming the engine forwards and not even remotely looking where he was going. “A saying like ‘too many cooks spoil the broth’, or ‘a stitch in time saves nine’, or …”
“Watch my boat, you damn fool!” shouted a voice.
“Dunno that one,” said Dad, just before the crash.
ll crashes on boats seem to happen in slow motion. Which just means you get longer to panic, thought Nat, over the shouting.
Their ugly old barge had backed into a handsome wooden vessel. A very energetic middle-aged man on the nice boat under attack was pushing La Poubelle off his paintwork with a large pole. Dad, on the other hand, seemed determined to sink him. “I’m not ENTIRELY sure I know what I’m doing,” said Dad, whirling the wheel one way and then the other.
“Well, do something DIFFERENT!” shouted Nat.
“Hold tight,” said Dad decisively. “I’m going to try something.”
“Closing your eyes and hoping for the best does not count as trying something,” said Nat, hunting for lifejackets.
And then something amazing happened. La Poubelle stopped crashing, moved forward and slid perfectly on to a large floating mooring. Nat looked at Dad. She was about to say, “I take it all back, you’re obviously really good at this,” when she noticed that, yes, he did actually have his eyes closed.
He opened them and looked around in surprise, then pretending he wasn’t at all surprised, hopped on to the pontoon and began tying the boat up. He heard a heavy boot land on the pontoon behind him. He turned. It was the English man from the other barge. He was a big man, with thick grey hair like steel wool. Nat thought he looked like a TV ad for vitamins. Before Dad could say anything, the man offered him his large strong hand.
“I have to thank you,” said the stranger. “That was the finest piece of seamanship I’ve seen for a long time.”
Nat breathed a sigh of relief that there wasn’t going to be another massive Dad row. But at the same time felt a tiny bit disappointed. She had almost been looking forward to Dad getting hurled off the pontoon. I am so very wicked, she thought.
Dad seemed to have been expecting to get chucked in the canal too, and looked surprised to find himself shaking hands. The English man was older than Dad, with hands like blocks of wood, covered in sandpaper. His face was leathery brown and lined like an old door left out in the rain, and covered with grey stubble. Bright green eyes poked out from under bushy eyebrows. Nat thought she heard Dad’s fingers crack under the pressure of the handshake.
“I thought you were an incompetent moron who hadn’t got the first clue about sailing and should be hung upside down in a bucket of boiling tar,” said the man.
That’s about it, thought Nat.
“Boiling sick’s better!” shouted Darius.
The man laughed. “Absolutely right. He’s a fine boy,” he roared. “I bet you’re a terror, right? Boy after my own heart!”
Oh, this just gets better, thought Nat sourly, watching Darius puff himself up. ‘Fine’ wasn’t one of the words people usually said about Darius.
“But then I realised that you must have seen we’d just lost our rudder,” continued the man. “You pushed us over to safety and then moored this thing like Admiral Nelson himself. I just wanted to shake your hand.”
A very beautiful young woman joined them on the pontoon and the man released Dad and put his arm round her. “I should introduce you,” he said. “I’m Rocky, and this is Emily.”
“Ahhh,” said Dad with a smile, “I’m sailing with my daughter too,” said Dad.
“I’m not his daughter,” s
aid Emily, “I’m his wife!”
Nat went red. You’re getting chucked in the canal now, Dad, she thought. But Rocky was just laughing, a deep and rather frightening sound.
“Everyone thinks that, don’t worry,” said Emily sweetly.
“Now, I insist on buying you all dinner!” boomed the man. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Dad’s not going to say no, thought Nat. Free food? Try stopping him.
“… And so there I was, several thousand feet up Mount Ummagumma, leg stuck fast in a crevasse, right arm broken in six places, and I’d just realised that it was an ACTIVE volcano. It was about to blow.” Rocky was entertaining them with another action-packed story.
“Worse, my phone was just out of reach.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Not that it would have done any good – I’d just been cut off because I’d forgotten to pay the phone bill!”
Everyone round the restaurant table laughed, except Nat, who had heard rather too much about Rocky’s adventuresome life.
“I’m sure Dad knows just how you feel,” she said. Dad’s phone was always getting cut off.
“Yes, I’m sure your father’s been in all sorts of scrapes,” said Rocky, meaning climbing active volcanoes looking for lost treasure. He punched Dad affectionately. Dad smiled but Nat knew he’d have a bruise on that shoulder for ages.
“How did you escape?” asked Darius, who had actually sat still for the whole meal. Rocky paused to drink a huge glass of wine in two gulps. He raised an eyebrow at a waiter who hurried over with another bottle.
ONE EYEBROW. Nat couldn’t believe it. Dad couldn’t summon a waiter with a car alarm and a huge flag that said: ‘Please can you serve me, I’m starving.’
“Escape?” said Rocky. “Oh no, that’s a whole other story. I don’t want to get boring.”
“Good idea, don’t bother,” said Nat, who thought Rocky was making her dad look even more useless than usual.
Everyone ignored her. She toyed with her crêpe sulkily. Apparently Rocky was an explorer, an adventurer, a travel writer, a pilot, sailor, engineer, poet, painter, deep-sea fisherman and concert pianist.