by Kate Dunn
Delphine was crouched at the entrance to the cabin, quiet and white.
Through the pelting torrent – he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket and straight away had to wipe them again – he could see that the Loing was lined with houseboats and faded yachts. An unsecured tarpaulin whined; a terracotta pot of herbs went flying from someone’s deck into the water; he could hear the fibrillation of ropes beating in the wind, of fastenings working loose. We’re never going to be able to moor in this, even if we can find a place, he thought to himself, though out loud he shouted at Delphine, “Close the cabin door and try to keep yourself dry,” adding as an afterthought, “And put on Amandine’s anorak…” to give her encouragement.
“But Amandine hasn’t got an–”
Her objection was lost as he battled his jumpy little craft along the first kilometre of the river, as far as the lock which marked the start of the Canal, where the Loing veered off un-navigably towards Moret. It was too shallow for the big boats, but at that moment, to Colin, shallow sounded good. He thrashed his way past the Pas d’Amarrage sign with the raindrops flying like bullets round his head. He was so intent on finding a space that he hadn’t even thought how he would moor, and he was about to point the bows straight at the bank and hope for the best, when a figure, bent double as though streaking through enemy territory, came skidding into view.
“Throw me your rope–”
Clutching the slippery tiller in one hand, Colin reached for the rope and threw.
“Have you got some kind of a stake?” the figure shouted through the perforating rain. Slipping sideways, Colin slammed the locker open, groped for the mooring stake and lobbed it onto the bank. The mallet followed.
The water was falling around them in sheets and it was hard to tell what was river and what was not. Hunched in a strange contortion to ward off the worst of it, Colin watched as the figure – a woman with cropped hair, wearing shorts and a singlet so wet that it had turned translucent – hammered and looped and tied in double quick time.
“This should hold you for a while, until it slacks off a bit–” she shouted, then skidded back the way she had come.
Colin shrugged himself out of his wet anorak and through the hatch into the cabin in a single action. He was panting from the exertion and it was as if some of the storm entered with him. He rammed the hatch shut.
“Phew!”
He sat on the edge of his bunk. More contortions followed as he tried to remove the wettest of his clothes as modestly as possible. The Dragonfly keened, hurling herself from side to side and Delphine rolled up into a tight ball, gripping her disconsolate monkey.
“First things first,” hunting high and low, Colin produced two carrier bags, some Sellotape and a pair of scissors. “Foul weather gear for Amandine…” He began the design, but before long his granddaughter uncurled herself to watch and after a little while she took the scissors from him and started cutting shapes from the plastic bags.
“We could use the off cuts for wadding, to keep her warm.” While the child busied herself making a passable life jacket and a sou’wester, heavily padded, the seams held together with Sellotape, Colin forced himself to face the prospect of foraging for their supper.
“I am just going outside and may be some time…”
In fact, he shot out and back in a matter of seconds, bringing with him a motley assortment of celeriac salad, tinned mackerel, a packet of unmade jelly, one Babybel cheese and some pistachio nuts.
“Marvellous – we’ll live like kings.”
They sat side by side in the storm, eating with their fingers, which they wiped on their clothes – “That’s what T-shirts are for,” he remarked with a grin. He didn’t want to seem too solicitous, for her to know that he was worried she might be worried, though he could see the fear in her huge round eyes.
A shaft of lightning split the air.
“Perhaps we should have an early night…?”
With no teeth cleaning, no hair brushing, they bundled themselves into their beds. Aggrieved now, for the tempest was beyond a joke, the Dragonfly rolled and hauled against her rope.
“Night, night,” said Colin.
“Bonne nuit,” replied a high little voice. A moment later a small hand reached across the gap between their bunks. Gruffly, he took it in his big paw and held it until she fell asleep.
~~~
Colin had given up all pretence at being a good sleeper years ago, back when he and Sally – well, back in the dim and distant past. His ploy these days was not to crave the sleep he couldn’t have, but to enjoy to the utmost the rest which came his way. As the detonations of the storm grew fainter, he slipped into provisional slumber, helped by the swim and slip of the Dragonfly trying to outwit the current. While the weather gnashed at the outside of the boat, he nested deeper into his sleeping bag, basking in the feeling of being sheltered, of warmth and languor. Half-thoughts drew him back to the surface and then let him go; he was caught and then released. He pressed his head deeper into the pillow, no longer able to distinguish the drowse of the river from the drifts of sleep which ensnared him: drowsing and drifting, drifting and drowsing.
Drifting?
He levered himself upright. The porthole was steamed over and he wiped it clear. Through the darkness he could see the anthracite lights of the river scudding past. Holy God, she’s broken free of her mooring. For a moment he wanted to curl up and hide his face beneath the pillow. He looked again and saw the kaleidoscope of riverbank and slanting trees. A broken branch went cracking past them. There was a jolt as the Dragonfly hit something – Colin flung himself to the other side of the cabin and peered out – a rowing boat – and Delphine woke with a scream.
“It’s alright, it’s nothing,” he knew that he was shouting, trying to out-pitch her, but he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t stay calm. “The mooring’s come loose. It’ll be fine. I just have to start the engine. We’ll be tied up again in a jiffy, I promise you.”
As he yanked open the hatch and the rain came spilling into the cabin, Delphine started to cry. He held her hand for a moment. “It’ll be fine.”
They were twenty metres from the shore, the Dragonfly flailing and confused. The only thought in Colin’s head was to fire up the motor, to regain control. He ripped at the starter cord, but the handle was wet and it went shooting from his grip; he ripped at it again.
Wheezing disagreeably, the engine started. The tiller was all over the place and they went shearing off to starboard and he nearly toppled over on the dancing deck. It felt like a kind of madness: for a moment he was overcome with a crazy elation, at the mercy of the persecuting rain. He swung her round as best he could, his wilful little boat skittering sideways. He pulled hard to straighten her and for a moment it seemed as if she would fall into line, but then he heard a thud thud thud against the keel, a whining sound so sharp it almost drew blood and the motor cut out.
Colin hung over the stern. “Get me the torch,” he yelled at Delphine. “Put your life jacket on, then get me the torch.”
“I cannot find–” her words came wobbling out; she couldn’t make her fingers work.
“It’s OK, it’s fine. Just concentrate on getting your life jacket on. One thing at a time. Good girl. I’ll get the torch.”
He tore the everything locker apart and found the torch. He hung over the stern as far as he could reach, into the weir of the night; he tried to lift the outboard engine clear of the water, tugging at it, then heaving with all his might, but it was stuck fast. He smacked his forehead. The mooring line was caught round the propeller. Cardinal Rule Number One, never start the engine with a rope in the water. “Fuck!” and then, turning in contrition to the terrified little girl, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’ll all be alright.”
He stared at the indigo water that coiled and uncoiled itself around the boat. “Right,” he took a deep breath, trying to keep the shakiness from his voice. “I’m going to have to go into the river and have a look under
neath her – it’s OK,” he said to pre-empt her, “It’ll take me two minutes at the most.”
Her face had that breached look he remembered from when he hurt her eye: her mouth stretched and twisted; a mix of misery and fright that he could not bring himself to see. “It’ll be fine.” Dimly, he thought it might help her if she had something to do, something to focus on. “I want you to be in charge of the torch. I’m going to need some light down there. Can you manage that?”
She raised her head. Her face was rinsed clean with the rain. “I ca–”
“Excellent,” he replied as she faltered. “Now, I want my Swiss Army knife and a shoe lace.”
“Grandpa–?” She never called him that; not voluntarily.
He looked at her in her pyjamas and life jacket, with Michael’s lavender tweed hat clamped to her head, the rain water cascading from its brim, “Courage,” he said it the French way, “Courage.” She bit her lip and nodded. He busied himself unthreading one of his trainers and lashing his pen knife to his wrist. Then he knotted a sturdy line around his waist and tied it to the cleat.
“I won’t be long,” he shouted and jumped into the river.
The water wasn’t as deep as he had expected – he could feel its icy grip around his chest and his feet touched the rocky bottom before they were ripped from under him by the current. He was hurled to the length of the rope and he hauled himself back along it, hand over hand. Through the darkness he could see the outline of the Dragonfly, her duck egg paint wan in the half light of the hidden moon. With one hand he caught hold of her side.
“Torch!” he called up to his granddaughter and with a guttering little sob, she found the torch and held it out towards him.
“I can’t take it – I want you to shine it down into the water near the propeller.”
Delphine nodded, her lips as blue as if she were in the river with him. The trembling beam shone down.
“Excellent–” he shouted, struggling to open the knife while holding onto the boat with one hand as the current tried to claw him away. “Can you tilt it at an angle? That’s it, well done, as close as you can get. Good girl.”
Without warning he ducked beneath the surface. He could feel his scalp contracting with the cold, tiny bubbles streaming close to his skin and the lick of weed. He tried to find a footing on the stones beneath him but his feet went skating sideways as the Dragonfly veered, then seemed to change her mind and spun back the way she had come.
Clinging to his lifeline, Colin groped for the propeller shaft and clutching his knife, fingered his way down until he found the knuckle of rope bound around the blade. He swiped at it once, twice, while the blood seemed to drain from his head and fill his lungs instead. He thrashed to the surface, gasped, swallowed water, choked, gasped again, so intent on trying to get his breath that the lifeline began to slither through his fingers.
“Grandpa–!” She flashed the torch into his face and he could see the red stitching of the veins behind his eyes illuminated as he blinked.
“Nearly there,” he shouted, coughing and spitting. He gripped the line, hauled himself close to the boat and dived again. He could feel the raindrops inverting themselves as they landed in the water all around him and the river pressed into his ears. He grasped the propeller shaft and slashed at the rope one more time. If he could cut through it, they could lift the motor and untangle the propeller from the boat. He let go of his lifeline to saw at it better, knowing that in seconds he’d be sent lassoing far into the current. He cut and cut. He could feel the strands splitting apart in his fingers. His chest burned him. He sawed and pulled and the severing of the rope sent him flying to the surface, all akimbo, releasing him into the air.
He made it to the boat and hooked his elbows over the side. “Done it,” he panted. He tried to lever himself on board but the Dragonfly lurched and Delphine gave a terrified yelp as she lost her balance. He dropped down into the water. “Hold on tight, I’m going to try again–” This time he hooked his leg over the side and thrust himself upwards with all his strength, his ageing muscles cold in the glimmer of the night.
He held out his hand for Delphine. “Pull – help me – pull!” She grabbed him and started ratcheting him upwards, his splayed body awkward as a crab. She dragged at him, bumping him over the locker one rib at a time, until he had enough purchase to deliver himself, shoulders first, onto the deck.
They stared at one another like wide-eyed opponents, each uncertain of the other’s next move.
“I’m going to get us moored so tight to the riverbank–”
Her teeth were chattering; her body gave a little spasm, she nodded as if she wanted to believe him.
“We’ll get ourselves dried off in a jiffy and before you know it you’ll be warm as toast,” he was extravagant with his promises, but what the heck. “It’s better than being on a beach somewhere like Benidorm, eh?” he asked uncertainly. “At least we’re having an adventure…”
“Is it so far to get to Benidorm?” was all she said.
~~~
The following morning Colin woke to the sound of rain. He listened to the drumming on the roof with a sinking heart. Across the way from him, Delphine snoozed, her face pressed into her damp tweed hat, with Amandine, dressed as a north sea trawler man, clutched to her neck.
In the confined space he struggled to put on his least wet clothes without disturbing her. He crept out of the cabin and retrieved his fishing umbrella from the everything locker, ramming it into the bracket where the red ensign usually flew. It covered the entire deck area; in fact, he had designed the deck specifically to fit beneath the umbrella. Sheltered now, he set about rigging up the Primus stove and put on a saucepan for some coffee.
That done, he went and checked the mooring and then surveyed the scene. In the middle of the night with the river in full spate it felt as if they had travelled the length of the Amazon, but in truth they were about three hundred yards from where they had first tied up. He shook his head. The saucepan was coming to the boil. He climbed back on board and made himself some coffee.
“Colin–?” Delphine’s scrunchled little face appeared out of the cabin, still creased with sleep.
“Morning.”
She glanced upwards at the umbrella. He followed her gaze. “Try to think of it as some kind of conservatory.”
“Is it still raining?”
“Just a tad. Do you want some coffee?”
“Breakfast?” she asked him hopefully.
“I’ll have to go into the village.”
She yawned and then tasted her mouth with her tongue and swallowed.
“You were very brave last night,” he spoke quietly, staring into his mug because he didn’t want to embarrass her, or himself. “Very brave.”
“Pfff.” She leaned right out of the cabin, reached for his mug and took a swig. “Pas de sucre!” She pulled an appalled face, “No sugar – bleeugh.” She crawled over to the side and spat.
“That’s a little extreme…”
Delphine remained hanging over the edge of the Dragonfly, but for a moment all impetus left her body. She became very still. “Colin…” She didn’t turn to look at him.
“Hmm?”
“It would have been more simple to cut the rope from here, non?”
His mouth was full of coffee. He gulped it down too quickly and could feel it scalding his gullet. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it was attached to this – what do you call it–?”
“–Cleat–” with a sinking heart he saw where she was heading.
“–this cleat – yes – it was attached here, non? So you could have just…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to say it.
His throat was still hot. He swallowed. “Leaned over and cut it from there?”
She nodded. He saw her catch her lip between her teeth. She looked as if she wished she had never brought the subject up, as if the last thing she wanted was to see his fallibility.
On the far
side of the river a family of ducks was walking tidily along the bank. The drake brought them all to a halt and then stood by as one by one they jumped onto a tethered rowing boat. Colin watched them as they arranged themselves along the central seat, shuffling into line and then sitting in unison. He had never felt so abject.
“I suppose I could have,” a sense of his own idiocy settled heavily on him. “It was dark – I couldn’t…” the possibility had never occurred to him. All he could think of was that the propeller was clamped under the water and needed to be cut free. “I should have done, you’re right. That’s what I should have done. Just leaned over – just–” he made a cutting motion. He swore bitterly inside his head, so that she couldn’t hear. His hand fell to his side. “I am very sorry, Delphine. More sorry than I can say. You were very brave and I was very stupid, incredibly stupid–”
“De rien,” she chirped, “It’s nothing. If you had cut the rope just like that–” she tugged at his sweat shirt for emphasis, to get his attention, to make up for everything, “–then we wouldn’t have had an adventure, would we?”
He saw the narrative that she was offering him. “No…” he dragged his answer into several uneasy syllables.
“Well, then.”
“No, we wouldn’t have.”
“Otherwise, we go to Benidorm, non?”
He gave an uncertain smile “If you say so.”
Across the river the ducks stared glumly through the rain.
“I say so.”
“OK,” he nodded.
“Good.”
“That settles that, then.” He gave an extended sigh.
“Breakfast?” she piped.
I am a very foolish, fond old man, he thought to himself. Out loud, he said, “I’ll have to go to the village. I need to find a launderette where we can dry our clothes. Do you want to come?”
“I must write a postcard to my grand-mère,” she answered piously, glancing out from under the umbrella at the rain, “And today is my day for talking to Papa…”
