like the dapple of fish scales. Then we come out onto the quayside, edged with its neat rows of cottages with pink and blue front doors, and the piles of lobster pots and rope coils, and the blue and red and black boats lined up along the jetties, their masts sharp against the sky.
By the time we leap down the wooden steps onto a very wobbly pontoon my chest feels like it’s going to burst from the exertion. ‘What are we h-here for?’
‘She’s rigged and ready, so I’d have thought that was obvious.’ He dips down into the low open boat we’re standing next to and hands me a padded waistcoat and pulls one on himself too. ‘That’s your buoyancy aid, slip it on over the waterproof and we’re good to go.’
‘Go WHERE?’ As if I’d know one end of a boat from another, let alone know the nuances and implications. If we’re talking water I have no objection to paddling, but if the water’s any deeper than my ankles I’m not a happy bunny. When I was with Marcus, whenever his family dabbled with boats on holiday, which was a lot, I always did a silent hooray, made my excuses and went off to read on the beach instead.
‘No need to panic – we’ll be out and back again in no time. I’ve done some repairs to the rudder in return for a favour. I’m just testing it holds before we deliver it back.’
‘Marvellous.’ I wedge my jaw shut to stop my teeth chattering. I know from work, it’s crucial to set clear boundaries at the outset. ‘And h-h-how do I fit in? If you think I’m going to swim to shore for help when the damn thing breaks into pieces, you can bloody think again.’
‘Definitely no swimming – I can sail her on my own – but it’s better with two people because there’s more weight.’ He’s already jumped down into the boat and he’s pulling on ropes.
‘So you’ve brought me along as ballast?’ Of all the insults, that has to be the biggest yet.
‘Not entirely, it was more a spur-of-the-moment thing. You looked like you were really struggling back there.’ He looks like he’s agonising. ‘I wanted to save you from a crap afternoon.’ His hand grasps mine and in one pull I’m in and sliding onto a tiny plank seat, clinging onto the boat side behind me as it lurches, trying to look like I do this every day. As the oilskin’s Velcro prickles my chin there’s no time to wish that Dayglo orange was more my colour because I’m too busy watching the dark shiny water going up and down as the boat rises on the swell, and holding onto my stomach which feels like it’s a washing machine working a full load. If I said I’d rather make a quilt, revise that upwards. I can’t count how many quilts I’d have sewn to avoid this. More importantly, if this is being saved, I hate to think what being dropped in it would be like.
Meanwhile Barney’s leaping around like bloody Superman doing a million things at once; undoing ropes, pushing us off from the side, hauling up the sail.
‘Boom!’
The yell makes me jump so much I almost end up in the harbour. But I’m catching on here, I’d hate to come across as clueless, so I join in too but make sure mine’s louder. ‘Boom! Back at you!’
From Barney’s bemused stare you’d think he was the beginner here. ‘Sorry, that means “Mind your head!” – that’s the boom there.’ He’s pointing at this long pole at the bottom of the sail. ‘Boom! is what we shout when it’s about to swing across the boat, so watch out.’
‘Shucks!’ I duck and narrowly miss getting my skull caved in as it skims past my ear and silently thank Christmas it didn’t bump my head. Then, as Barney squats down at the back, some kind of stick in one hand, still pulling on a rope in the other, there’s this awful creaking, but we start to move away from the jetty and out across the harbour.
‘Okay on the side there?’
‘Great.’ My fake I’m-totally-fine-thanks smile would be way more convincing if my lippy hadn’t all just blown out to sea. Even though I look like Mr Blobby I attempt a nonchalant lounging position, but when I lunge slowly backwards there’s nothing to lean on. I’m sure I had many clips in my messy up-do, but it feels like the wind wrenched them all away and tossed them into the water, so I push my scarf into my pocket so I don’t lose that too. ‘Are you sure it’s okay going out in this gale?’
He pulls down the corners of his mouth and does a little wiggle on the stick. ‘Probably only a force two.’
Which means absolutely zilch, but I’m pretty proud of the way I exclaim about it anyway. ‘A TWO! Jeez, well, that explains why it’s so rough and windy.’
‘It’s like a millpond, Edie. I wouldn’t have brought you out if it wasn’t.’ He’s frowning at me. ‘Maybe you’d like to let go of the side and hang onto the sheet instead? Get a feel for the wind?’
‘Great, you’ve brought a sheet – I’ll wrap myself up in it if it gets any colder.’
He purses his lips. ‘The sheet is this rope here, you could pull it and hold the sail in place?’
‘Hell no. Thanks all the same.’
If I didn’t know better I’d think he was trying to hold back his smile. ‘So maybe you can tell me how come you’re less in love with sewing than the rest of them?’
‘I got off to a bad start at school.’ To be honest it’s a relief to have something to take my mind off the heaving of the ship. ‘The first ever lesson, the textiles teacher caught me holding a pin in my mouth.’ That was practically the only useful thing my mum had ever taught me about needlework. ‘Apparently teenagers giving sudden whoops and ending up in A&E with pins jammed in their throats is a massive Health and Safety issue.’ I know that I’m blurting and over-sharing, but I can’t stop. My only excuse, I must be a nervous sailor. ‘To be honest I’d have thought sewing through your finger with a machine was way worse. That’s what Bianca Hill from the other group in our year did. But, whatever, the teacher had a hissy fit and things went downhill fast from there.’ A lot like things have in St Aidan, come to think of it.
‘Okay, we’re going to swing the sail around and change direction in a minute, so hang on tight and duck … one two three, BOOM!’
‘Jeez, what the HECK … BOOM! To you too!’ There’s so much splashing and heaving and groaning it feels like we have to end up upside down, pitched into the water. I’m digging my fingers in so hard to the boat side I get splinters under my fingernails, but at the end of it somehow we’re still afloat, even if we’re at a crazy angle.
‘Okay, now come and sit the other side of the boat, and this time try to lean back as far as you can to get your weight out over the water.’ As he watches me make my way across, inching forwards on all fours through the puddles, I no longer give any fucks. The will to look stylish disappeared somewhere in the harbour car park, and I left my last shred of pride back on the jetty. I get there eventually, but he can forget leaning out.
‘So much chopping and changing. It’s hardly relaxing is it?’
He’s rubbing his fist over his mouth. ‘So, how far downhill did your sewing go?’
‘By the time we got to making dresses for GCSE, mine was the size of one of those things that you put your bed quilt inside.’
‘What, a duvet cover?’
‘That’s the one. Then I put the zip in upside down, and somehow stitched the front to the back so, even though
