Читать книгу Tripping Over - John Hickman - Страница 21

Next day was Saturday and Dad boarded first with some difficulty.

‘I’ll need fucking ropes and crampons for you two,’ he muttered. ‘The only redeeming feature here, Alice, is there’s no audience to gape at us.’

Downstream the road bridge was far too low for boat traffic and beyond there the river disappeared into an old mill.

In the other direction, upstream, an old wooden footbridge crossed the backwater towards the main stream.

‘It’s a legacy from when draymen pulled their heavy barges. They led their carthorses across from one side of the river to the other,’ Dad explained.

A long time indeed since anyone had seen any tugs that tugged, barges barging, or steamers that steamed on the upper reaches of the river. Irrespective of the finer definition of what constituted boat traffic on the River Thames at Sonning, both the river itself and the backwater were tidal.

When Dad fired up the motor he not only stirred up the river but we disappeared into a blue cloud of exhaust fumes. Intending the boat be moved slowly, he cautiously slipped into forward gear.

‘Both of you should sit down as we move off,’ Dad instructed from the helm.

But the boat did not move.

‘That’s strange, Alice,’ Dad called out.

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘We’re not moving.’

Dad increased the throttle until the waters around the boat positively surged.

But we were without boat movement in any direction.

Suddenly, an enormous wooden mooring peg came free from its earth foundation.

It whipped through the air like a missile and bounced off the boat leaving a long dirty streak of a mark.

‘Oh, shit,’ Dad groaned as he puffed on his pipe. ‘I forgot to untether the mooring ropes.’

Next day was Sunday. After a pleasant breakfast in bed of bacon, sausages, eggs and anything else that had once been on a farm Dad decided to take us for our long awaited cruise.

Motor in full throb, free of moorings, we headed up stream towards the juncture with the main river.

Mum frowned and gave Dad a steady look. ‘Bill, that bridge looks awfully low. Do you think we’ll get under it?’

‘Don’t be silly, Alice, the boat builders passed underneath on Friday. Today’s Sunday. Of course we’ll get under it.’

‘But the bridge does appear low in the water, Bill.’

The Alice Mary hit the bridge—hard. Things fell off shelves, a window broke and shards of glass went everywhere. The engine stalled and Mum screamed loudly. Then she burst into hysterical tears.

We spent some time wedged sideways against the bridge as the tide continued to run out, while Dad reflected on the phenomena of—tidal.

As we returned to the mooring you’d have seen happier faces on a school bus going over a cliff.

That evening over a splendid dinner in the hotel restaurant Dad promised Mum he now understood tidal.

‘Oh, well, family, another perfect day on the river,’ Dad said with a deep sigh. His smile was about as warm as yesterday’s porridge.