The Boat

by Clara Salaman

  Her dad laughed. ‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘She’s only eight.’

  The woman gave him a rather short look from over her spectacles. ‘Tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth,’ she said, opening her bloodshot eyes wide at Clemmie. ‘Beware Friday the thirteenth!’ She waved her hands in a mysterious circle, then stood up and sighed as if her prophecies had exhausted her.

  ‘Is that it?’ her father asked rudely.

  They wandered around the fair and stood about watching and waiting as happy, loud people hopped on and off things with purpose. They stood on the edge of the Bumper Car ride watching the cars slow to a halt. Clemmie clutched her dad’s hand as he pulled her through a mob of people rushing across the smooth plasticky floor and sat her down in a red one. Then off they went swerving and bumping, shouting and twirling. She leant back to watch the pokey thing making sparks along the ceiling.

  ‘Where next? Where next?’ she cried as he lifted her out of the car. He was as happy as she was now. He’d forgotten all about her mother. They played a shooting game and he won her a monkey toy. They wandered through the noisy throng with her new best toy. There was so much to see. The bright bulbs and multicoloured lights flashing on and off made the night sky behind shine a bold royal blue. She looked down at her Start-rites clicking amongst the litter and the spilt popcorn, shuffling along with a hundred other feet. Hers were chilly again, but she didn’t complain. They stopped by the Waltzer and watched mesmerized as people in giant tea-cups and saucers flew across the floor, towards and away, in and out, spinning this way and that, missing each other by a hair’s breadth, faster and faster in a whirl of ecstasy.

  ‘This one! This one!’ Clemmie cried, looking up at her dad.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. This one!’

  ‘It might make you a bit sick after three ice creams.’

  ‘No it won’t. It really won’t. Please, Daddy.’

  So they waited for the cups and saucers to stop and for the wobbly-legged people to get off. Then, still clutching her father’s hand tightly, she climbed into the blue one that looked like the china at her nanna’s house. Her dad stuffed Monkey into his pocket and they waited as the other cups began to fill up, the fair man hopping casually from saucer to saucer, holding out his tattooed hand for the money before slamming down the metal bars. ‘Hold on tightly,’ said a voice on a loudspeaker before some music blared out and then very slowly the tea-cups began to move. Whoosh. Whoosh. They swung out, nearly crashing into a couple of boys in the next cup. She screamed with joy, looking up at her father. See, I told you it would be fun!

  Then slowly it began to speed up and Clemmie slid across to the edge and rather wished she wasn’t wearing her slippery red tights. But it was still fun, everyone thought so, everyone was screaming. Her father was smiling, the wind making his curly hair stand up on end. He had his arm around her and she slid back into him as the tea-cup whooshed unpredictably about the floor.

  Faster and faster they went: strangers’ faces looming up and bearing away from her; her knuckles white as she gripped the bar. And still it got faster. Rather too fast now. Her feet couldn’t reach the saucer. Her father had to remove his arm and hold on with two hands and she could no longer look round at him, she was doing all she could just to hold on. The tights and her lack of weight meant that she was sliding about all over the place.

  Then suddenly it wasn’t fun at all any more. She couldn’t stop the slipping. She tried to ground her feet but she was too small and now she’d slipped forward she couldn’t get back. She could feel herself sliding beneath the bar.

  ‘Make it stop!’ she cried. ‘Make it stop, Daddy!’ But he couldn’t hear her. She was going to slide right out, she knew it. ‘Make it stop!’ She was screaming. The fear consuming her now, she was rigid with terror; she felt sick with it, she was going to die – she was going to go flying out and get squashed beneath the machinery, split into two pieces.

  Still faster it went and as it hurled into a new direction Clemmie felt herself go, there was nothing she could do about it and, still clinging on, she slipped right underneath the bar, her body straight as an arrow flying through the air. But she didn’t let go. She was looking up at the roof of the red tent and holding on for dear life, her legs flying about, her brown Start-rite shoes banging hard against things. She could hear her father swearing and shouting. She felt him grab her arm and pull her in but the force of the change of direction twisted her round; she was half in half out. He couldn’t pull her in.

  ‘Stop the fucking machine!’ He was screaming. She had never heard him say that word before and she was glad that at last he understood why she had been screaming. She wasn’t just being a scaredy-cat. He was holding on with one hand and holding her in the other. She lifted her head and she could see his face, the panic in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve got you. Clemmie! I’ve got you! I won’t let you go,’ he yelled. ‘I won’t ever let you go.’

  And she had really believed him.

  5

  In The Wake of Things

  Johnny could hear Frank’s low, soft voice from the tender; it rumbled across the water as he rowed. He wished he’d not left the boat, not gone berry-picking and certainly not felt Annie’s breast up there on the hillside. He was returning to the boat carrying a new cargo of guilt. Only a couple of hours ago he had been convinced that it was Clem who would betray him and now the tables were turned: he had beaten her to it. His stomach was knotted in a confusion of lust and loathing. He hated himself for being at the mercy of his cock. It was definitely time to get off the boat, to find the nearest village, to leave them; he must make sure of that. The truth was that he didn’t trust himself around Annie.

  There she was right in front of him now as he rowed them back to the Little Utopia; she was letting her toes drag in the water, eyes closed, tipping her face up towards the sunlight, her elbows underneath her arched back and those tits of hers jutting tantalizingly forward, a lazy smile on her lips. She seemed unconcerned by what had happened up there, was acting as if everything was perfectly normal, paying Johnny the same attention as before, no more no less. It was as if no line had been crossed.

  ‘Hey, Smudge,’ he said, diverting his own attention. ‘How’s Granny doing?’

  She was behind him at the bows, whispering sweet nothings into Granny’s unlocatable ears having dropped her on a rock during a bouncing experiment.

  ‘One of her legs is a bit dangly,’ she said. Now that Granny’s life expectancy in the wild had been seriously curtailed, Smudge had been allowed to bring her back to the Little Utopia as a pet.

  Johnny rowed, watching the oars passing through the clear green water. He could hear Clem laughing and the splashy flick of a fishing line hitting the surface. He rested the oars in their rowlocks for a moment to listen to the quietness and looked up at the coastline to his left, miles and miles of uninhabited scrub, and it made him feel intensely claustrophobic. He looked back at Annie; she was watching him now and he quickly looked away. He must get Clem off the boat; they must leave, get back to their lives, back to the two of them. He glanced up along the coast to the north, land they had already passed, inlet after inlet of nothingness. There was no choice about it: they had to stay a little longer. There was absolutely nowhere to get off and go to.

  ‘Hey, guys! We’ve got lunch!’ Frank said, standing up, bare-chested, as they approached. He was holding up the bucket. Johnny couldn’t meet his eye, so he settled on his chest, which was much less hairy than he’d have supposed. Johnny passed up the bilberries and the new crew member, then helped Smudge on board and got himself up over the guard rail, all without looking at Frank’s face.

  ‘Hey, Johnny,’ Frank whispered, grabbing his arm in his hand, holding him behind as the others went below deck with their wares. Johnny had to turn around and face him then. Frank’s eyes were mischievous, quizzical. He sees everything. ‘You look like you need cheering up. After we’ve eaten, you want to get the sails up? Show m
e what you’re made of?’ he said.

  Johnny nodded. That was exactly what he wanted to do; Frank did indeed see things. ‘Absolutely,’ he said.

  Annie gutted the fish and Frank cooked them while Johnny patched up Granny’s leg. He made her a splint out of an old lolly stick while Smudge and Clem built her a new home out of a cereal box, Smudge decorating the walls with felt-tip drawings of more able tortoises skipping about merrily in the scrub. They put Granny in the box with her lollipop leg. She seemed unimpressed; she stared at the murals, nonplussed by the unexpected turn her life had taken.

  Johnny slid himself under Clem at the saloon table and put his arms around her. He squeezed her small body against his and buried his face in her hair. He whispered in her ear that he wanted to row her ashore and find a nice private stretch of shade. Smudge, sitting on the other side of the table, thought that sounded like an excellent idea, they could look for more tortoises – not quite what he had in mind. Instead the three of them chopped apples and made a crumble and Johnny didn’t think about Annie’s breasts at all until she came down to help them and he could see them jiggling underneath that shirt as she peeled the apples.

  It wouldn’t be long now; they might even find a village this afternoon.

  After lunch was cleared and washed up, to Johnny’s relief, they left the bay. He pulled up the anchor and Frank motored them out of the harbour. They chugged along the coast for a bit with Johnny waiting for the nod to get the sails up. He sat waiting, leaning against the mast, Clem at his side, the warm breeze on his face, turning every now and then to see if Frank was ready. He couldn’t just put the sails up without Frank’s permission; it would be like helping yourself to a drink in someone else’s house. He wondered out loud what he was waiting for.

  ‘He doesn’t do anything without a reason,’ Clem said, sucking loudly on a pear drop; she’d bought a stash of them in the UK and rationed herself to one a day so that they’d last her up to three months. ‘Have you noticed that?’ she said.

  ‘I have,’ Johnny said, his hand absentmindedly stroking her leg. They both looked over at Frank at the helm, his dark hair waving wildly in the wind, a cigarette dangling from his lips. There was something of Gregory Peck about him today.

  ‘He saved us, didn’t he?’ she said. Johnny turned to look at her; she’d used exactly the same words that Annie had. ‘The other night…’

  ‘I suppose he did,’ Johnny said, taking her hand. ‘I think we should get off at the next village though, not wait for the town.’ He looked out at the puffy white cumulus clouds bouncing along the horizon. ‘Otherwise we might be stuck for a week.’

  Clem turned sharply round to look him in the eye. ‘What? Aren’t you enjoying it?’

  ‘I am… I am,’ he said, backtracking, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I don’t want to outstay our welcome, that’s all.’

  ‘But we haven’t. Frank says we can stay as long as we like.’ Then she paused, screwing up her face in the sunlight, struck by a new idea. ‘Why? Did Annie say something? What happened on the hillside?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, too quickly, a clenching in his gut. He squeezed her hand. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Well, what’s the rush then?’ She looked over at the shore and he noticed that the ends of her lashes had been bleached by the sun. His eyes followed her gaze. Nothing. The bows of the boat were going up and down in the waves, ploughing through the water. An arrhythmic lull seemed to take hold of them both.

  ‘I’m not ready to leave,’ she said, smoothing his fingers. ‘It doesn’t feel like the right time. Let’s wait until we get to a town.’

  He felt both relieved and anxious to hear her say that. If the Annie thing hadn’t happened he would be with her one hundred per cent. There was something different about these people, something alluring and attractive. The attraction wasn’t a physical thing – well, it was, but it was much more profound than that. He didn’t understand what it was quite yet. He could only think of it as though he had been swimming on the surface for a long time and someone had just introduced him to the snorkel and mask.

  ‘OK,’ he said, feeling that at least he’d tried. ‘Well, let’s play it by ear.’

  ‘Don’t get too comfortable!’ Frank yelled from the cockpit. ‘She’s all yours!’

  Johnny leapt to his feet and started undoing the sail-ties. ‘Aye, aye,’ he cried. ‘Head to wind, Frank!’ he called but Frank couldn’t hear above the engine. ‘Clem, turn her round, can you?’

  Clem jumped down into the companionway and Frank turned off the engine and disappeared below deck, letting Clem take the helm. She nosed the boat round into the wind and Johnny grabbed the halyard and started to hoist the mainsail. The halyard jammed and Johnny jerked it free, heaving harder, balancing his weight, one foot against the mast. The sail was stiff and clean and flapped about wildly as it went up. The wind had shifted a little; they’d have to beat into it.

  Johnny cleated the halyard off, pulled in the mainsheet and unfurled the genoa. Annie and Smudge sat huddled together on the port side watching his every move as he went to and fro along the deck checking the sails, looking up and leaning out, shouting instructions to Clem. Frank stood in the companionway in his fisherman’s jumper, a big grin on his face as he watched Johnny get the boat going to its maximum capacity.

  Johnny took the tiller and bore away into a close haul. The boat heeled over. Both Annie and Smudge let out identical little cries, their hands gripping the sides as if they thought the boat about to capsize.

  The Little Utopia moved nicely. Johnny was pleasantly surprised. ‘She’s quite nippy for a fat bird,’ he said, looking over at Frank, letting out the mainsheet just an inch or so.

  They headed further out into the open water and Johnny felt his doubts and worries get swept away with the wind. This was all he needed; this was what he had been waiting for: the thrill of a little bit of speed. Speed fuelled by wind power alone. It wasn’t just Johnny feeling the adrenalin; he looked at the others and could see that they were all feeling the rush. It was impossible not to. Clem came and sat by his side, slipping her hand into the back of his shorts, kissing the dip beneath his cheekbone where her lips fitted and for a while it felt good, but then he became aware of Annie sitting there on his other side with her breasts. He had to stop it. He tried to think about how old she was but that didn’t work, it made him remember babysitting for the neighbours. He tried to think of her making love with Frank, but that didn’t work either, that only intrigued him. He turned to Clem and kissed her lips in a perfunctory way, handed her the tiller and got up to adjust the genny. Only a couple of days maximum, he thought, looking over towards the land.

  It was much windier out at sea without the shelter of the mountains. The bows of the boat thumped smack down into the water, the spray hitting everyone in the face. Smudge squealed each time it happened, licking the salt from her lips, grinning at Johnny. She was a brave, wild little thing. Thump, thump, thump went the bows.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Annie cried, anxiously looking up at Johnny, holding Smudge close. He squinted up at the main. He should probably put a reef in.

  ‘Frank!’ he cried. ‘Do you want to put a reef in?’

  Frank, still standing on the companionway steps looking out to sea, turned back to Johnny and then looked up at the sails. ‘Up to you,’ he said.

  ‘Put one in!’ Johnny said but Frank didn’t move.

  ‘Put a reef in, Frank!’ Johnny repeated, thinking he hadn’t heard. Frank looked up again at the sail and then back at Johnny.

  ‘What’s a reef?’ he asked.

  Johnny laughed. What’s a reef?

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ Frank said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What the hell’s a reef?’

  Johnny looked over at Annie, who stared blankly back at him.

  ‘You know what a reef is,’ Johnny said, laughing, not knowing quite what was going on. ‘You have sailed this boat before?’ he asked, handing the tiller to Clem again.

>   Frank shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never sailed any boat before.’

  Johnny laughed again but he was confused, thought that perhaps this was some sort of test Frank was setting. He put the reef in himself. Then he came back down into the cockpit and changed tack, heading back towards the shore, and it began to dawn on him that this wasn’t a test: the reason why the sails looked brand new was because they were brand new. Frank wasn’t joking. When he’d said that they’d been sailing round the Med for the last six years, he meant motoring around the Med. He didn’t know how to sail. Johnny stared at Frank in amazement. Why the hell would a man who didn’t know how to sail take his family to live on a sailing boat? He had to be crazy, and the sheer insanity of it was kind of impressive.

  ‘Why buy a sailing boat, Frank? Why not a motor boat?’ he asked a little later on, when they were alone in the cockpit sipping at beers. Frank tapped himself out a fag, caught it in his lips and lit it, sheltering the flame from the wind. He sat back, spreading his huge frame out wide, a mischievous smile on his lips.

  ‘Perhaps, like you, Johnny,’ he said, ‘I had to leave in a bit of a hurry.’