Читать книгу Tripping Over - John Hickman - Страница 20

Anxious to be ahead of the game Dad named our new boat Alice Mary after Mum and arranged a mooring at the French Horn Hotel at Sonning, situated on a backwater of the River Thames.

His pride and joy was to be delivered by the boat builders who were expert sailors. I watched Dad as he puffed at his pipe while he gave instructions over the phone. ‘It’s to be moored at their landing stage at the foot of their manicured lawns,’ he explained.

Dad also arranged for the hotel to provide a range of suitable refreshments to coincide with our embarkation. ‘Nothing is to be left to chance,’ he insisted. Dad wanted to impress Mum. Visions of crisp white tablecloths laden with goodies while he christened his new toy sustained Dad throughout his working week.

He promised Mum, ‘We’ll spend many a glorious weekend at the French Horn Hotel and we’ll have the best of both worlds with fun days out in our boat. We’ll have a wonderful time, Sweetheart.’

Mum was delighted. What better reason to get dolled up in the body hugging dress, the high heels, the bag, the hair.

When we set out for the mooring on the Friday the weather had changed. Instead of the insipid pale blue sky promised by the weather forecasters, the sun was watery without warmth, hidden by thick grey, cloud cover. On our arrival the Alice Mary had a distinct lean away from the landing stage.

‘Oh, Bill!’ Mum closed her eyes.

It was low tide. Although the boat didn’t have a deep draft, more water was needed at their landing stage than low tide provided. Dad’s fantasy dissolved. His shoulders sagged. He relit his pipe and appeared to fight hard to remain in character resplendent in his new double breasted yachting blazer and embroidered cap.

Culinary professionals arrived with drinks as arranged. Dad’s energy transformed into nodding his head, blinking and trying to look pleased. Across his face was written, Oh, dear! All is lost. It’s time for a drink.

‘It’s been a busy week,’ Mum sighed as she sipped her Babycham. She looked to Dad for answers. Considerable discussion ensued about how we might board the vessel. Mum became irritated while Dad clung vehemently to his notion of a celebratory meal with drinks on board. Being feted like generals from some all-conquering army had been his plan but after several thoughtful puffs on his pipe, he conceded there was no room for inflated egos.

Mum’s attempts to board in her figure hugging dress might prove unladylike. After a few Scotch and sodas, Dad gained confidence and tried to lead the way.

His leather soled shoes, which were perfect for driving the Talbot, were unsuitable to gain traction on the polished deck. To steady himself he reached out for the boat canopy, which would have almost certainly saved him—had it been there.

Caught off balance forced him to put his other foot down in the mud.

He disappeared to his knee. Had he thought to put his pipe down first, the outcome may have been better. Dad’s facial expression revealed he’d come to realise the reality of his situation no longer matched his dream.

I wanted to be aboard as any red blooded young man would but Mum decided against the idea. ‘John, no! You’ll get wet. Stay here.’

‘But, Mum. I can’t get wet. There’s no water.’

‘Be quiet,’ Dad snapped. ‘Do as your mother tells you, or it’s straight to bed for you, young man.’

Mum mutated from comfortee to comforter. ‘Bill, why don’t we get chairs and a table set up on the landing stage? We can admire our brand new boat from here.’

Caked as Dad was with river mud, he saw merit in her wisdom. ‘Good idea, Alice.’ And so our big celebration was conducted on the rustic landing stage itself.

Mum continued on with a second Babycham while Dad drank copious Scotch and sodas. I made serious inroads into their stocks of chilled pineapple juice.

As the tide began to rise, water lapped in and the boat began to right itself.

A groundsman thoughtfully adjusted the mooring ropes. Dad’s mood improved with his intake of Scotch and the incoming tide. He puffed on his pipe and brushed dried mud from his trousers. ‘We’ve only suffered a slight setback, Alice.’

Mum’s eyes glazed from the effect of a third Babycham. As the area at the landing stage was far too shallow for the Alice Mary at low tide, Dad was advised by hotel management to move her upstream. That meant a hike out in the rough at the furthest edge of the property.

To board we would need to negotiate a steep and uneven riverbank. Even with care and correct footwear Dad knew he would have to have his wits about him. Still waters do indeed run deep and to make matters worse supplies for our day’s outing needed to be ferried, which proved troublesome without proper road access.

Mum became upset with worry. ‘What if John slips and falls into the river, Bill? At best he’s a poor swimmer and prone to panic. Whatever might happen next?’