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Chapter Twenty-two
Visitors on the Way

A
MELIA RANG JUST BEFORE
Easter to inform us that she and Huw were coming to visit, and, I have to admit, with the kitchen now working, and with a small amount of money coming in we had become lax yet again and were happily concentrating on the easy minutiae rather than making a start on the next big job. We were still sleeping on the floor of the saloon next to the fire which was very nice.

However, Amelia's news brought on panicked rushing about while we tried desperately to think of a place we could stash them for a long weekend. Unfortunately, the only answer that we could come up with was to get off our lazy butts and get on with transforming the main bedroom into a liveable space.

It was a horrible mess. Over the last three months it had taken on the dubious title of ‘the garden shed' and we used it to store everything that wasn't actually required for everyday living. It took us 12 full hours of running backwards and forwards, making odd piles on the bank before we even had an empty space and another week for Geoff to construct the skeleton of a bed, wardrobes and shelves.

As he was destroying what was left of the original kitchen, a loud shout of ‘Oh bloody hell' brought me scurrying down the length of the boat to see what had gone wrong this time. Geoff was standing with his back to me. ‘What's up,' I asked, trying to peer round him to see what he was holding. I saw a flash of dark red and wondered where I had stashed the first aid kit.

‘Do you remember the trip here,' he asked, turning away from me, his voice muffled and slightly shaking.

‘Erm ... yes? It will be forever etched in fire across the span of the file marked painful memories.'

‘Do you remember that we had a little problem getting into the canned goods?' He twisted away from me, again keeping whatever he had in his hand out of my sight.

‘I have the scars to remind me.' I tried to duck under his elbow and, as he turned away again, only succeeded in running my face into his back.

‘Look what I found at the back of this cupboard.' He turned and flourished an ageing red can opener at me.

Dawning realisation. ‘You mean that was in that cupboard all the time?'

‘Yep,' he grinned and gently poked me with it. ‘You obviously didn't look hard enough.'

There was really nothing I could say to that, well nothing adult anyway, so, summoning as much dignity as I could, I merely turned and walked away. I shouldn't have bothered trying, I only got as far as the bathroom before, giving in to my more childish tendencies, I turned and blew him a raspberry over my shoulder, ‘Pttthhhp to you and your stupid can opener.'

With Amelia and Huw due in 24 hours, Geoff finished putting the last of the slats on the bed and showed me how it worked; bless him, he really is ingenious when he puts his mind to it.

By its very nature, a narrow boat has a six-inch overhang all around the walls which is the gunwales on the outside; this six-inch overhang is exactly the right height to smash you in the forehead when you sit up after taking a nap. So to combat Happy's insistence on presenting you with a migraine every morning and to give us a little more space, Geoff had designed a bed that slid out the required six inches when we wanted to sleep but could be pushed back under the gunwales to give us six inches of extra walking space during the day.

I know it doesn't sound much, but in a seven-foot wide boat, six inches can make an awful lot of difference. And, unlike some narrow boats, the bed could stay, in its entirety, 100 per cent of the time and not have to be folded out and remade every night. We had seen this feature in other boats and quite frankly, while it certainly gave you some extra room, when I want to go to bed I want to just fall face down and start snoring; 20 minutes making up a bed every night just seemed to be one more trauma that we could live without.

The only problem with the bed was that the side came up to within an inch of the top of the new mattress, so when you sat down to put your socks on, the side cut into your thighs and cut off your blood supply which made your feet go numb. It was one of those jobs that got put aside, as being ‘not important enough to do now, but we will definitely get round to it'. We never did.

Easter was great fun – even with Charlie also down for a visit, we just about had room for everybody. Charlie was stashed in the tiny front room, Amelia and Huw lounged about on the floor in the saloon and we all spent the week pushing past each other and getting in each other's way. Even the non-boaters in the family soon learnt to leap into any available space as someone came toward them, it was either get out of the way or risk being covered in whatever the oncoming person was carrying.

Even though it was unfinished, the new bedroom became our sanctuary. It was lovely to just hide in a real bed first thing in the morning and listen to poor Amelia attempting to referee the daily breakfast arguments between Charlie and Sam.

My little job was boring and underpaid, but that week I loved it. It was quiet, and after the four-day Easter weekend, I dashed off every morning for the rest of the week, stepping over slumbering teenagers and snoring dog and breathing a sigh of relief as I stepped out into the silent early morning sunshine.

I did feel slightly guilty as I kissed Geoff goodbye. I had to work, so by default he was child-sitter for the week and by Thursday the strain was beginning to tell. His need to get on and do useful things was completely hampered, either by the older children trying to help, or the younger ones demanding food.

On Thursday night, I came home to find Huw in charge of the circular saw, happily cutting his way through all our waste wood to make it into fire-sized chunks, and Amelia stacking it into a wood pile. Sam was stealing it for Charlie and Charlie, having stolen blue barrels and a length of rope from God only knows where, was attempting to build a raft. I waved at them all contentedly attending to their ‘chores' and went in to find Geoff, face down, snoring softly on the sofa, with a spilt cup of tea on the floor beneath him. Oh dear, hard day obviously.

Chapter Twenty-three
Another Child on the Way

W
ITH ANOTHER CRISIS PASSED
and another room complete, we yet again settled into just living. We did discuss that maybe we should get on and finish the boat,
before
another problem had us running around like loonies, but, with the weather steadily improving, life on the boat became almost idyllic in its monotony. Long weekends spent travelling around. Long evenings, either spent with friends or just sitting on the warm steps with a good book and a long drink, often chatting with Charlie and Dion from next door who were also taking advantage of the sunny evenings. It was going to take something pretty monumental to get us moving again. Luckily for us (God forbid we have a chance to get bored), Charlie graciously took it upon herself to provide the next source of impetus.

We had noticed that during her last two visits, she had been very quiet when it came time to leave and had been desperately trying to carve out a place of her own on the boat. While this was expected, it had been difficult to accommodate her needs with the boat incomplete and in such a state of disarray.

One Sunday in early June, I had loaded us both into the car and we had prepared for the journey back to the Midlands; we usually left early and made a stop on the way back to see my mum and dad. Charlie was again quiet and uncommunicative, which was a little worrying, but I put it down to turning 12 and starting on that long slippery slope to becoming a teenager.

Mum asked if she was OK just before we left and I shrugged, not really knowing what the problem was.

An hour later, close to home, Charlie asked, ‘Do I fit in with the family?'

‘Yes, of course,' I answered, worried where this was going. ‘We miss you when you're not there and whatever we do as a family would always include you.' I was horrified to realise that there were definite tears behind that curtain of hair she always hid in when she had to talk about something that bothered her.

‘You've had something on your mind for a while now, haven't you?' I asked, worried that I was going to breach the unwritten rules of teenage-adult communication syndrome, but feeling that something really had to give. Maybe she really hated the boat and didn't want to come and see us any more.

She didn't answer and stared miserably out of the window until we pulled up outside her house, where she got out of the car without a word. I joined her at the back of the car and, after getting her bags out of the boot, was surprised when our parting hug went on far longer than normal. She finally stepped back and with a defiant last sniff ran her hands over her face and pushed her hair back. She looked horrible, she had obviously been crying quietly for a lot longer than I had realised, but without giving me a chance to stop her or ask her why, she ran away and into the house.

I stood there for a little while, not knowing what to do. As with any marriage break-up, it is very difficult to put personalities aside and do the right thing for the children, however hard you try. There was nothing I could do, as I certainly wouldn't be welcomed if I knocked at the door. I had to walk away.

Rather than my usual routine of driving straight back down to Cambridge, I called Amelia and wandered over to Hereford to see her and Huw and to see if she had spoken to Charlie at all, hoping that she had more information than I did.

It was a lovely warm evening, so we decided to go for a drink at their local and it was when we were sitting in the beer garden with a large orange juice that the fatal phone call came. Charlie asked to come and live with us.

Thoughts under this sort of pressure lose adhesion. I always wonder if there has been a psychological study regarding the fracturing of thought lines when your world turns upside down. What? Great!! Fantastic!! Oh my God, great!! When? How? Why? I can't ever remember being so pleased and so terrified all at once, but then reality struck – where the hell were we going to put her? aaaarrrrrggghh!

I called Geoff and repeated the conversation to him and laughed when he verbalised exactly the thoughts that I had just experienced.

We had been told to expect her in four weeks. Just four weeks to create a teenage-friendly space on a half-built narrow boat. Oh well, there went the hedonistic summer. I was just glad I had managed to enjoy as much of it as I had.

I don't honestly remember much of the next four weeks. There were quite a few loud, angry phone calls and moments when we thought she would change her mind, but she had far more backbone than I had possessed at 12 – possibly more than I had at 30 – she had made her decision and even with the full force of certain members of the extended other family pushing at her, she never budged an inch.

Her immediate family gave her the space to make the decision for herself, but they also defended and supported her decision when it was attacked. Strangely unexpected really, but very much appreciated. We rushed around finding a school and doing all the things one does when an unexpected near-teenager falls into your lap, but most of all, we concentrated on her room.

The odd-shaped room right at the front of the boat seemed an ideal teenager pad. So we set to work ripping things out. Not only did the walls curve top to bottom in this room, as they did in the rest of the boat, but they also curved left to right, coming to a sharp point at the bow. Every single piece of furniture had to be built by hand; the bed, the shelves and the wardrobe, the wood cladding had to be shaped and fixed. It was, quite frankly, a logistical nightmare and Geoff went almost entirely grey while he was building it. However, we did experience a rather surprising breakthrough – he gave up with his lists and drawings. With a box of tools and a serious amount of wood, he just made it up as he went along. Even if it hadn't worked out, I would have applauded his break from pedantic normality.

Three weeks and six days later, 3.52 a.m., we put the last brushful of paint on to the walls and hung the curtains at the seven small windows that ventilated the room and then collapsed, hoping that it would all be dry by the time Charlie turned up at midday.

By 11.30 a.m., both Geoff and I were on tenterhooks: what if this all went wrong? How would Sam cope with having a full-time older sister? What if she decided she hated us and hated living on the boat full-time? What if she hated her school? What if, what if, what if ... and so the questions just kept coming. My phone rang at 11.55 a.m. and set my heart racing. They were at the end of the marina's drive, so we wandered over the flood defences to meet them.

Discussing the meeting, while covered in paint the previous evening, we had decided to take the mature route and I had laid on drinks and nibbles thinking that they would obviously want to see where she was going to be living and see her room. I felt that we could all be very adult, grit our teeth and for once, just for once, we would try to get on for Charlie's sake.

The car pulled up and Charlie and the other parents got out. Without a word spoken, her stuff was unloaded from the back of the car, dumped unceremoniously on the grass and, with a perfunctory hug, they climbed back into the car and drove away, leaving her standing with a pile of boxes.

Geoff and I stood there open-mouthed; the whole thing had taken less than three minutes. The group of us stood and watched them disappear, not a word was spoken. When at last the car was out of sight, I turned to Charlie; she was pale and tired looking. Oh dear, standing here in silence was not going to do her any good at all. I wandered over and, putting my arm around her stiff little shoulders, gave her a nudge with my hip.

‘Typical of your dad,' I tightened my grip and grinned at her. ‘He just goes on and on, never knows when to shut up. My goodness, these long goodbyes are so tedious, don't you think?'

Charlie looked up at me and laughed. With the stress barriers finally broken, she burst into tears and we all stood in a big three-way hug, until Sam, wondering what had happened to us all, came to the top of the flood defences, and seeing Charlie, started to run down, shouting hello and wanting to know what was in all the boxes. He slipped and ended up in a heap at our feet, covered in little sticky grass balls – at least that gave her something genuine to laugh at.

The huge decision she had made, the arguments over the last four weeks and the three-hour journey had been painful for all of us and certainly way too much for someone who was only 12. She was stressed to the point of mental incapacity and we had been left to deal with it. In the 11 years Geoff and I have been married I have never seen him so angry. It was unfortunate, really, and utterly frustrating, as he couldn't say anything without upsetting Charlie further, so after making sure that we were busy making refreshments and that she had calmed down into wide-eyed silence, he decided to take it out on the reeds and other vegetation with our strimmer. One angry man with a weed-whacker is something to be left alone for a fair while.

After about an hour, numerous cups of tea and at least a pound of chocolate, we had all calmed down enough to start sorting out her stuff. One consolation was that she loved her room, purple and white, just as she had asked for. By seven o'clock, she had occupied ‘her space' and carefully placed all her things, then had promptly passed out in her new bed, completely exhausted by the extremes of the day. One more room finished, one extra occupant. Seemed only fair.

With Charlie finally aboard, we decided that although the temptation was to treat that weekend like a ‘visit' weekend, this wouldn't do her any good and she needed to experience ‘normal' life as soon as possible. So, Sunday morning, we pulled up the ropes and headed toward Ely for a pump-out and refill.

The normal hour and a half turn phase down to the Lazy Otter went without a hitch. Geoff had finally given in and let Charlie drive Happy and, even with the strong wind that had begun to really get its teeth into doing what wind does best, she seemed to be enjoying herself, showing an amazing knack for driving – especially as she had problems actually seeing over the roof and had to peer around the side of the boat. At the turn, the wind was in our favour, blowing straight onto the bow, so, as we turned Happy around, the wind gave us a bit of a push and Happy whipped about as though she had a pin through the middle, and within seconds we were facing the other way. Congratulating Charlie on her superb piloting skills, we headed back up the river, past our mooring and out onto the wider Ouse toward Ely.

During the next hour, the wind became stronger and stronger, blowing in short, sharp gusts across the port side against which Happy was completely powerless. Ignoring our rubber band engine, the wind had a great time blowing us about and we moved diagonally down the river toward the first turn.

We considered it lucky that we got on to the pump-out mooring without having to wait or queue. In hindsight, I think that all the other boaters had been sensible and, after taking one look at the weather, had decided to leave any movement for another day, only creeping out to check and tighten their mooring lines.

Within an hour we had filled up the main tank with water and had run a deep hot bath for one of the kids – whichever one fancied bathing while moving; there is often a bit of a scrap over this as it is, without doubt, one of the most odd, but decadently pleasurable, experiences I have ever had. You get into a hot bath in one place with a glass of wine and a good book, and by the time you emerge prune-like and slightly tipsy, you are somewhere totally different. Lovely! If I ever live in a ‘normal' house again, I know I will be slightly disappointed to get into a bath, relax and emerge an hour later to find it still in the same place.

Sam won the coin toss on this occasion and settled into his bath with about 30 small, plastic, bobbing friends. Leaving him to happily soak and play, we coiled up the mooring ropes and set off upriver toward Littleport. There is an excellent winding hole at Ely, but all too often it is completely blocked by inconsiderate muppets parking their day-boats around the edge of it. I have lost count of the times I have wished that I could just power Happy's nose into the hole and then cheerily count the bits of debris as we leave, but Geoff keeps telling me that that would be very bad for my karma.

With the winding hole once again unavailable, we took her about a quarter of a mile down the river and then prepared to turn. I noticed, with a sinking feeling, that, unlike the previous turn, the wind was now in the worst possible place it could be, blowing straight up the river. So, as we made the turn, it hit us broadside, and, bored with exploring its gusting abilities, had now built up to blowing steadily and strongly.

We had a real problem. Every time we tried to turn, as soon as we came broadside, the wind just picked us up and shoved us further down the river. We went backwards and forwards, but there was absolutely no way that the engine was powerful enough to push the boat round against the wind and the water flow. Once again I wished we had installed a bow thruster as, although considered cheating by some of the old hands, it would have made our lives at that point very much easier.

An hour later, two miles downstream, and as we were still no nearer to turning Happy back towards home, we decided to take the dangerous action of ramming her nose into the rock pilings at the side of the river and hope to use the engine to bring her back end round; this isn't an ideal solution, as you never have any idea of what is under the water, and if we grounded now, in this wind, we were going to be stuck for a very long time.

Geoff grabbed one of the poles and, heading to the front, braced it against the bank, all the time praying that the pole would just bend with Happy's weight and the pressure of the wind, not snap. The whole thing worked surprisingly well and we were more than relieved to find that there were no nasty surprises lurking under the waterline. Some deity must have become bored with playing with us: the wind slackened off and we finally completed the 180-degree turn. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, we headed back through Ely and toward home, thinking that we would be home for tea and wouldn't have to go to pump out again for two weeks.