by Kate Dunn
He had seen that expression on his son’s face. He could understand exactly what Madame Duvoisin meant. The child had Michael’s eyes, with their stealing hazel lights; she had the same colouring that he had had when he was little, although he couldn’t see her hair properly because of the hat, but the set of her jaw was his, and her wide mouth, and her slightly crooked teeth.
My son, he thought, the wound fresh every time. My boy.
How often had Michael stood before him, just like this, all ablaze? Diversionary tactics, he remembered, that’s what used to do the trick. “This is where we sleep,” he unbolted the hatch, which was about two foot square, “It’s very clever, look,” he slid the catches on the inside of the hatch and two legs unfolded, “See, it turns into a table, which slots in–” he viewed the bag, “–just there.”
In spite of herself, the child was intrigued by the cabin and she crawled inside. There were two miniature bunks with a gap the size of a wedge of cheese between them. She lay down on the one on the port side, testing it out. “There is no space,” she observed.
Colin poked his head through the hatch. “When it’s time to turn over, it’s time to turn out, that’s what Napoleon said. He was one of yours,” he added. He had to reverse his way into the cabin because once he was inside there was no room to turn around. He flipped up the mattress to starboard, revealing a locker. “There’s one on your side too, for your clothes.”
He hunched himself up as the child leaned through the opening, undid her bag and started lifting things through. A couple of times she glanced combatively over her shoulder at him. Among the stacks of T-shirts and skirts (she hadn’t got a single pair of shorts), he could make out a few paperback books (good), a smart phone (not so good), a pad and some felt tips, half a dozen pots of nail varnish, a kit for making beads from papier-mâché, a photo album, several comics and a soft toy that resembled a scrawny, lanky monkey with Velcro on its hands and feet.
“This is Amandine,” she said, “She’s from Madagascar.”
“Well, clearly Amandine must stay, if she’s come all the way from Madagascar,” Colin attempted a smile, which got no response. “But I’m not sure that you’re going to need the–” he counted them under his breath, “–eight skirts, are you?”
“But of course.” She tried stuffing them into her locker, which was bulging already. She sat back on her haunches and huffed a sigh. “They are mine. I need them.” She surveyed the scene, curling the hem of an orange dress with her toe. She scooped it up and inspected it, thoughtfully, then she tugged the dress on and pulled a skirt on over it, followed by two T-shirts and a pair of stripy cotton tights. She was reaching for a purple and turquoise pinafore, when Colin stretched across and stopped her.
“You’re going to get awfully hot like that.”
To his horror, the face she turned towards him was full of grief, buckling, brimming grief. Her arms were crammed with clothes and she buried her face in them. “I need… I need…”
The sight of it floored him. “Right,” he nodded after a beat or two. By stooping low and easing himself onto her bunk, he was able to lift his mattress and open his own locker. He scrabbled about inside and chucked a couple of pairs of trousers, most of his shirts and his second-best pair of shorts onto the deck. “I’ve got far too much stuff, actually. Much too much. More than I’ll ever wear.” He tried another smile, a warmer one this time. At the bottom of his locker were his waterproofs and his best shorts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and two T-shirts. “One to wear and one to wash,” he said bracingly.
The child regarded him.
“Plenty of room now.”
With her eyes still on his face, warily, she began to stuff things into his locker until it was so full they could barely fit the lid back on. In the end they lined the shelves under the mattresses with her tops and her fleeces, so that when they lay down to test out their living quarters, their faces were only a couple of feet from the ceiling. A curling little laugh escaped from her, but then she covered her mouth with her hand as if she had done something wrong.
They looked at one another.
“Where is the kitchen?” she asked, as if to change a subject which had never been broached.
Colin pointed to the seat on the starboard side of the deck. He clambered out of the cabin and lifted it up. “Here.” Inside was a Primus stove, three saucepans that fitted inside each other, a water carrier, some plastic cups and plates, some Tupperware boxes and two glass jars full of tea and coffee.
The child nodded. “And the bathroom?”
“Here.” Beneath the bench on the port side was a portapotti and a bucket with a sponge in it.
She nodded again. “What’s under there?” She pointed at the seat along the back of the boat.
“Everything else,” Moving the handle of the outboard motor to one side, he lifted the seat to show her the jerry can, the mallet, the mooring stakes, the spare rope, his fishing tackle.
“Merde,” she remarked, more admiringly this time, and he had to pretend that he didn’t understand.
~~~
Next door to the Dragonfly, the owners of the gin palace were watching satellite television, unmindful of the way that Paris wrapped itself around the marina, the street lights and illuminated windows of apartment blocks enamelling the night. Craning his neck, Colin could just make out their faces in the blue blur of the TV. He contemplated their portly contentment, trying to picture how it might feel. Thirty years ago, when he was still a man with dreams, he had imagined such companionable oblivion for himself and Sally.
He pulled a wry face and shivered, for down at canal level the air was dark as felt, but no longer warm. He tried dragging his T-shirt over his elbows, already regretting the cavalier way he had thrown most of his wardrobe out with the rubbish. The child had been so upset, so raw with all her sorrows. He leaned forward, peering into the cabin, for the curious experience of seeing her sleeping. She still had her hat on; although it was tipped back on her head and for the first time he could see her hair. He tilted the hurricane lamp so that he could study the different nuances of gold and brown, the corkscrew curls. She looked so vivid, even in her sleep. He half reached out, as if he just might touch her forehead. He tried to picture himself smoothing it with his hand, and how that would feel. With a sigh he scooped up Amandine, who had fallen out of the narrow bed. For some reason the sight of the monkey, with its fur thinning in places, one side of its head more worn than the other, moulded out of shape from too much loving, shook him right to the bone. Before he could contain it, something between a cough and a sob racked out of him, so that he had to press the creature against his chest to quiet himself.
Back on deck the night was cold. On impulse, he climbed onto the pontoon and made his way to the waste bins. Like some dispossessed old drunk he rooted through the rubbish bags until he found his own and yanked out a sweatshirt and jumper. He pulled them both on – a leaf out of the child’s book – and thought he would have his one cigarette of the day before he turned in.
He smoked it standing up beside the cabin door so that he could look down any time he liked and see his granddaughter. Earlier on, thinking what on earth he was going to do with her, he went across to the Capitainerie and bought a navigation book for the French waterways. His original plan had been to sit tight in Paris so that he could be on hand to help his son build his case. He stared into the asphalt dark. Well, that didn’t appear to be an option. He flicked his cigarette into the water, watching the fallout of bitter sparks. He knew that he couldn’t spend six weeks knocking about in the Arsenal Marina with a nine-year-old girl who’d need entertaining and amusing. He wouldn’t know where to begin. A trip would help him manufacture an adventure for her. Leaning down, he retrieved the navigation guide from the shelf above his bed and began leafing through charts showing mighty rivers like the Seine and the Yonne. He licked his lips. The Dragonfly had never been further than the Kennet and Avon canal – their finest hour to date had
been a voyage to Avoncliff for a spot of fishing and a ploughman’s at the Cross Guns pub. With a cautious finger he traced the line of the river through the untamed banlieux of Paris, wondering what lay ahead of them now, and whether he or his beautiful little boat would be up to the job.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was three-thirty in the morning and Michael couldn’t sleep. Three-thirty in the morning didn’t seem that different from three-thirty in the afternoon. Imprisonment didn’t only mean the loss of freedom; it meant the loss of meaning: everything you did was just serving time and if you weren’t careful, and Michael wasn’t always careful, it would be easy to feel that nothing mattered anymore.
The bed was the wrong bed; the room was the wrong room. The morbid shadows that existed at night time in the corners of a prison cell unnerved him. They made him think of the first few nights away from home after his mother left his father, that same feeling of temporary exile that turned out to be not quite so temporary after all. He drew a breath in as he found himself back in the emigrant landscape of unfamiliar sheets and alien smells with the vulnerable little boy he had been all those years ago. It was like taking an elevator down into ancient history, to the point where all the trouble started, his stomach fluttering at the nauseous descent.
Down and down and down he went into the watery wash of light of a spring afternoon. The air was still damp with fallen rain and he and his Dad had come tumbling back from football in the park covered in mud and leaf mould. Bathwick Wanderers (Dad) had been playing England (Michael) and had taken a thrashing. “Seven One, Seven One,” he sang an anthemic chant all the way back to the house. “Can we play Top Trumps?” he asked, kicking off his trainers without undoing the laces.
“When you’ve had a shower…”
“Dad…”
“And given me your dirty clothes. I can’t send you home to your mother in this state.”
There was a catch of breath in his chest when his father said this: the dawning, the remembering. He couldn’t work out who to love because loving them both as he did seemed to be out of the question.
“Go on, scram, or there won’t be time.”
While they played Top Trumps at the kitchen table, he kept darting glances at the clock, glances which became more frequent as his Dad cooked the lunch, a proper Sunday roast with all the trimmings just for the two of them. They had pancakes for pudding and his Dad was doing his party piece, tossing a pancake with one hand while flipping a coin with the other, when the doorbell rang. Michael was conscious of tidying up his smile and putting it away.
“Better get your things…”
He stared at the floor, feeling suddenly precarious.
“Hey…” his Dad ran a finger down Michael’s cheek. “Who’s my boy?”
“I’m your boy…” he whispered.
“Who’s my boy?”
Michael couldn’t answer.
“Seven One, eh? What about that?”
The bell sounded again.
“Time’s up, old chap.”
They walked together to the door; Michael measuring his footsteps, he already knew the number it would take. Colin reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“Chin up,” he said gently.
Michael nodded.
His mother was standing huddled close to the front door, to keep out of the drizzle. All three of them tensed as his Dad opened it.
“How’s he been?”
“He’s been fine.”
Michael hovered in the hallway, his school reading bag in his hand.
“I think he finds the changeover difficult,” he heard his Dad observe in a quiet tone.
“Don’t we all?” his Mum said. She stared unseeingly at the shrubs which lined the path. She studied her shoes. “I didn’t really want to go into this, not right now.” She looked at her watch. “but since you’ve raised the subject – can I come in for a moment?” She stepped into the hall. “Michael, go and sit in the car.”
“He can watch a bit of telly if he wants.”
“He can sit in the car.”
They none of them moved though, and Michael started putting his books into his school reading bag with sad precision.
“He gets upset when he’s leaving me as well, you know,” his Mum pointed out, walking into the sitting room. “It works both ways.”
“That only makes it worse, doesn’t it?” his Dad said, following behind.
Michael watched them through the open door way. She swept her gaze over the shelves of books, then into the garden. “Is that a boat you’re building?” she asked, diverted for a moment. He nodded.
“We can’t go on like this.” His mother’s voice was smooth. “I’m thinking of applying to the court to suspend the visits for the time being.”
Michael dropped his school bag. His mother looked over her shoulder at him, annoyed.
“Go and sit in the car, Michael. I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, turning back to his father. “If these visits are upsetting him there’s no point, is there?” she reasoned and Michael put his hands over his ears, to blot out the sound. “You could take him out for tea, that kind of thing, but no more overnights, until he seems more settled…”
“What?”
“You were saying that he gets upset. We have to put Michael’s interests first…”
“But that’s all I’ve ever wanted, that’s what I’ve always tried to do: to put him first,” his Dad protested.
~~~
Michael turned over in his prison bed. He lay on his back listening to the sound of Laroche breathing, trying to work out if he was awake or not. At the far end of the wing somebody was throwing a chair against a door with deadening monotony. The regular pulse of violence, the metronome tick of it, was everywhere.
Another memory surfaced of a Sunday visit – the overnights had finished months before – queasy from too many liquorice allsorts and blinking at the afternoon brightness, he and his father had come charging out of the cinema with the ululations of Africa sounding in their ears. Mufasa (Dad) led Simba (Michael) safely through the Pridelands of Bath to a burger bar, where they hunted down two cheeseburgers and chips. Michael could have gone on being the young prince all afternoon. He drooped in his seat. He pushed his drink away.
“What’s that? Over there!” said his Dad, nicking a chip as he craned his neck to see. “Gotcha! Come on then, you can track me through the Country and Western section of HMV if you like.”
They continued the Big Game game to oblige each other, prowling from store to store, Michael coming in for the kill as his Dad immersed himself in the football results showing on the TV screens in one of the shop windows, but when they got home to the house all the golden prairie light ebbed away.
The doorbell rang. His mother was standing on the doorstep in a summer dress. She pushed her sunglasses back on her head, “Say thank you to Daddy and go and sit in the car. Now.” She propelled Michael down the path. “I need to talk to you,” he heard her say as she doubled back to his father. “It would have been easier to put this in a letter,” she bit her lip. “The thing is, Étienne is going back to France. He’s asked us to go with him.”
His Mum was speaking in her irritated voice; the one she often used with him when he had done something to upset her but couldn’t be quite sure what. “I want a divorce. We should have done it ages ago.”
Michael leaned over, reached for the armrest and pulled the door shut. He thought he might like to live in the car for ever. Never come out. He sat for a while staring into his lap. There was an AA road map tucked into the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat and he wondered about taking it out, leafing from page to page tracing the route until he had worked out how many miles it was from Bath to France.
Us: Mum, Étienne, me.
His parents were shouting.
“You can’t do this to me. You can’t do this to Michael.”
So loud, he could hear them from the car. He thought he might feel better if he had a mint and
as he leaned forward between the seats to pinch one from the packet on the dashboard he glanced instinctively to check if anyone was looking, just at that moment when his father swung back his arm to its full extent.
The blow sent his mother’s head jerking sideways, the ferocity of it spreading out from the roots of her hair. Her sunglasses fell to the ground. As though in continuous motion, his father went veering away from her. She put the glasses on, a little crookedly because her hands were shaking. She turned and came rushing down the path, her hand pressed to her mouth. Michael sat back in his seat. He didn’t really want the mint, not now.
He didn’t know who to love, anymore.
~~~
In the pale prison light of the Paris dawn, he could hear the sound of stifled crying. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his tee shirt, but his T-shirt was dry. He tilted his head, trying to discern the strange topography of the man not sleeping in the bed against the far wall: Laroche with his head buried in his pillow, choking down furious sobs so that no one would hear.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Did you sail across the channel in him?” The child had finished her chocolate croissant and was halfway through the almond one he’d bought for Amandine.
“It’s a her,” said Colin, “She’s a she.” He glanced at her. She was sitting on the cabin roof, dangling her feet over the hatch. “Boats are feminine in English.”
“In France they are men. Le bateau. Masculin.”
“Is that so?
“And we are in France, non?”
“Have you finished with your plate?”
“So? Did you cross the channel in him?”
He so badly wanted to say yes, he so badly wanted to, that he almost committed himself to a Little Ships of Dunkirk moment, some fiction about setting off from Dover with a fair wind blowing, himself the hero of the tale, battling ferries the size of tower blocks and container ships all the way from Russia; he even took a breath to begin.
“I brought her over on a trailer on a ferry from Portsmouth. I parked up in the north of Paris.”
