3
Spike spent the Saturday night at her house. After a cup of tea and a round of bacon sandwiches, which Spike made while she had a doze, he ordered her to get up – ‘C’mon, Polly. ’Tis a glorious Sunday morning, and I’ve got something to show you. Not that. Honestly, you’ve a one-track mind.’ He pulled her to her feet and smacked her bottom.
‘Oi!’
‘Hurry up there. We’re off to catch a ferry.’
‘Why? Where are we going?’
‘Will you not wait and see.’ And he planted a kiss on her forehead.
Polly wasn’t daft. She knew she was sliding down the helter-skelter of falling in love but rationalised that all would be fine. The two of them hopped on board a ferry close to where her back yard met the river’s footpath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on one. A bit like when she lived in London and never bothered to visit Madame Tussauds or the Tower of London. God forbid. Now that she was on board the gaily painted yellow and blue boat, she resolved to do ferry trips more often. She felt as giddy and excited as when she and Mel had gone on a school trip to Longleat House with the prospect that they might see an actual ghost, or that a real lion might escape and gobble up their classmate Natalie Wong (nicknamed Natalie Pong because of her BO), or that the Marquess of Bath – stunned by their beauty – might invite them to become his latest wifelets.
Yes, this was a grand way to see the river and harbourside, especially on a mild spring day like today. She positively glowed with the after-effects of great sex and a good-looking man by her side – even if he was trying to dangle his hand in the water when he’d already been told, ‘Best not do that, sir.’ Polly was delighted to see the ferryman wore an actual fisherman’s cap and navy jumper. She couldn’t squeal out loud (after all, she wasn’t thirteen anymore), but did so in her head.
Spike took a photograph of her with his phone. ‘God, I must look a right mess,’ she said, even though she was happy with the way her hair was wild and bright orange in the sun, and how her clothes just seemed to slink onto her body.
‘Aren’t you the gorgeous one,’ he murmured, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt more sexy or alive.
They chugged past chi-chi new-build riverside apartments, and a jetty to the left on which a cormorant sat preening itself and then stretched upright in a crucifixion pose, its wing feathers spread like washing pegged out on a line. Up ahead, another black cormorant bobbed on the water – she watched as it flexed its long black neck like some haughty queen – then, quick as a blink, dove straight into the water. Where it entered, the river’s surface danced in slivers. She pointed. ‘Did you see that bird?’
‘What bird, where?’ he said.
And then – there! Further along, the bird popped up like an emergency buoy suddenly released from a scuppered ship. Held fast in its beak was a long, wriggling, almost transparent ribbon-like creature. Looks like one of those eel thingies…
‘Have you ever been on the Matthew ?’ Spike was asking, as they pulled alongside the dark honey-coloured replica of the wooden ship that once carried John Cabot and his crew on their voyage to discover America, long before Christopher Columbus. She marvelled at how tiny it was, and shook her head – no, she hadn’t been on board – maybe one day. The ferry docked to let people off and others on.
‘Nearly there,’ said Spike.
She smiled at him, not minding that he had a surprise in store for her, because Polly loved surprises. Not for her the rattling of Christmas presents to try and discern what was inside. She was all for delayed gratification.
‘Can’t wait,’ she said, as he squeezed her arm and touched her knee with his. The ferry leisurely continued its journey through the swing bridge, on past giraffe-like cranes outside the M-shed and harbourside bars and restaurants. Passing another ferry, theirs tipped slightly in the water and ploughed towards a group of juvenile seagulls hanging around in a gang on top of the water, their dirty grey-speckled weave of feathers patterned like fish scales. Is that why they’re called herring gulls? she wondered, as the birds did their tippy-toe running along the surface then took flight to make way for the boat.
The ferry shushed and slurped along, until Spike announced, ‘This is where we get off,’ just as they approached a line of four barges and a small landing stage. ‘Here, give me your hand.’
*
‘What do you think?’ Spike had stopped on the towpath, next to a dilapidated mostly pea green-painted barge that reminded Polly of “The Owl and the Pussycat”.
‘Is this the surprise?’ she said, waiting to be enlightened further.
‘Yes. She’s my boat. I’m doing her up before… well, anyway, I’m doing her up. Might sell her, might keep her. I’ve not yet decided.’
Polly loved the barge. ‘I think we ought to christen the boat, don’t you?’ he said on that first visit.
‘What, you’ve not named it?’
‘Don’t be so daft. Christen it…’ And so they did. They christened it on the small caravan-like banquette, then across the table, giggling as Spike placed his hand over her mouth when a couple walked past up on the towpath.
‘But why a boat?’ she finally asked. ‘Why, when you told me last night that you don’t swim?’
Something which had come as a big surprise to Polly – who was a strong swimmer herself. She couldn’t imagine how anyone in this day and age could not swim.
‘So? I can’t fly, either, but that doesn’t stop me from getting on a plane.’
Spike liked to surprise Polly with romantic gestures – he’d leave little love notes around her bedroom for her to find after he’d left for work: Missing you already – see you soon. S xxx (discovered under her duvet when she threw her covers back); and Thanks for a gorgeous sexy night – why not wear these frilly ones next time? S xxx (hidden in her underwear drawer), and many others. It was a fun game, searching her room for little scraps of paper hidden – up the chimney, inside an empty packet of condoms, slotted in the corner of a picture frame. Once she’d woken to a Post-it note stuck to her forehead – A kiss from me. S xxxxx . One time, he even stuck a note under the windscreen wiper of her Citro?n 2CV, parked in Clifton Village. Sometimes, in the quiet of early mornings, they’d congratulate themselves on how well they were doing, how liberating it was, being together with no expectations, how they could live in the moment, and risk loving – safe in the knowledge of when it would end. Snuggled up like two babes in the woods.
She loved their sleepovers on the barge – although Spike did stay at her house most of the nights they were together, because she wasn’t that keen on the chemical toilet, and he liked to come and use her shower. Still, it was thrilling on board, as she loved the touch and creak of the barge’s old weathered wood, the different sounds and smells, the way their lovemaking rolled with the elements, then waking up to moorhens messing about on the river, or swans majestically carving their way through the water like small white Viking ships; coming together in pairs, touching their beaks so that their heads and necks made the shape of a heart. Polly thought of, but didn’t mention, how swans mate for life.
Once she saw a water vole. ‘You sure it wasn’t a rat, there, Poll?’
Often, when they were lying in their bunk at night, she’d fantasise about how they could slip their moorings and drift off to a land where the bong tree grows. (‘Is that like a spliff, Poll?’ he said sleepily. ‘Shut up!’ she said contentedly.) Sometimes she’d sing the song to him of how they’d dine on quince and slices of mince served up in a runcible spoon.
‘Ah, you are daft there, Polly,’ he said.