Oli Townsend

PRESENTING

O-kaaayyy, er, who do we have next!?

Miss Walmsley runs her finger down the register. Neesh is done. It’s me next. My teacher’s finger arrives at my name;

Ah yes; Caro.

She smiles. Looks up. Our eyes meet. Miss Walmsley is my favourite teacher.

Up you come, Caro.

Eleven steps to the front of the class and I turned eleven last week. I glance up at the classroom clock. Yes; the little hand pointing to eleven. Just as it’s my turn to present; eleven o’clock.

Good things come in threes, Caro love.

That’s what Mum would say. It’s exactly the kind of thing she says when we’re out for a walk with Grebe. Just the three of us. I imagine his little tail wagging as he scurries about after a scent.

Right now though I’m stood by myself at front of class. Waiting for Miss Walmsley to give me the nod. I feel good about the drawing I’m about to show them.

Feel proud.

My fingertips pinch the edges of the paper. Miss Walmsley looks over but doesn’t signal for me to begin. She waits. Surveys the class. Some chattering still at the back. She never gets cross but she likes quiet in class. We all know that. She waits calmly. Puts a finger to her lips. After a few seconds everybody settles. They’re sitting upright and watching her. She turns to me and nods.

Ok Caro, tell us about your creature.

The eyes of the class all turn to me.

I swallow nervously. Trying to stand up taller and prouder.

Miss Walmsley nods again. Kindly. My voice waivers a little as I begin;

The Carid is half person and half deer.

Huge warm rush inside. Belly flutters. Legs be strong! I picture Mum’s smiling eyes and push my feet down into the ground, wriggling my toes inside shiny school shoes. Shiny school shoes with flecks of dry towpath mud. Holding my drawing up in front of me, I glare at the back of the paper. I know they’re all staring at me, just the other side of it. All of them; sat cross-legged on the faded carpet. Just like we do every morning. Only now’s different; I’m stood and they’re waiting.

They’re waiting.

Watching and waiting.

Sunshine squeezes through classroom blinds. Dust twinkles as it floats about in the air. Things feel slow and magical this morning but if I wait any longer I might not begin at all. Might never speak again.

I close my eyes for a moment and see the Carid blink back at me.

Take a breath and continue.

The Carid is half person and half deer. They live in the between places. In the woodlands around the river. They are not often seen by people. They can stand so still that most people can’t tell them apart from the trees. Locals used to believe they actually turned into bark. And other people didn’t believe in them at all. But if you spend enough time in the woods you might be lucky enough to meet one. They only show themselves if you love the woods as much as they do. Then you have a friend for life because the Carid is the most loyal, most special, of all the magical creatures. And they will protect you, and the woodlands, fiercely.

Paula Higgins’ hand goes up. Miss Walmsley nods.

Why’s it that colour?

My eyes shoot down. Nervous. There’s a faint stain on the carpet where one of the twins was sick last year. Miss Walmsley had to go to the office to call their Mum. While she was out the room some of us took turns jumping over it. I shake away the memory but keep my eyes fixed on the stain.

Um, because it’s, er, like a tree. Um. Like, camouflaged.

Miss Walmsley smiles. I feel stronger after answering Paula’s question. Especially with a big word like camouflaged. It’s probably a new word for some of my class. Clearly Miss Walmsley agrees: her chalk scratches and squeaks on the blackboard behind me as she adds Camouflage to our list of New Words. I glow inside. Ready for anything that anybody else might ask.

Can it fly?

Don’t shout out, Jason.

Jason didn’t even put his hand up, I stare at him as he repeats the question.

Can.

It.

Fly! . ?

He repeats. Staring back at me. Scratching his armpits and looking at me with his mouth wide open.

Gormless.

No. Can’t fly.

Kyle Pickering snorts from the back of the classroom.

Is it a boy or a girl? I can’t tell from yer drawin’.

He rocks back and sneers.

I hesitate. I’m not sure if I know. Didn’t think about that. But then I realise; of course I know. I can picture the creature so clearly. Slender body and legs of a female deer with a chest more like that of a human boy. Flesh and moss-like fur swirling in a wild pattern between them. Its arms lean and strong but its hands and fingers almost delicate. Its face angular with almond eyes and long lashes. Not a boy’s or a girl’s like the kids in my class. The Carid looked like both boy and girl at the same time.

Both. Like Mum and Pip say the oak trees are.

Both. Like Bob and Betty all at once.

I lower the drawing and look directly at Kyle.

They’re not girls or boys. They’re both.

I feel like I’ve won something, but the feeling only lasts a split second before my pride is shattered by a ripple of jeering and snorting laughter from the boys at the back of class. The girls at the front look round at them. The laughter spreads and builds until within seconds, everyone in my entire class is laughing. Even Neesh is grinning awkwardly. Even Neesh. I fight back the urge to cry.

I wish I didn’t care.

I wish I didn’t care.

Miss Walmsley tries her best to calm the class but this time she has no effect.

The bell for break cuts through the noise.

Everybody rushes out.

Miss Walmsley smooths her skirt and raises her eyebrows at me.

I look down at my drawing. I should have kept it secret after all.

During break a gang of boys rushes past me. One of them; Matty, who I don’t really like, has shoved his coat up inside his jumper and is pretending to have boobs. As they pass, they all shout.

We’re both! We’re both!

Later, Kyle barges me against the playground door as we’re going back into class.

Where’s your WILLY, weirdo?!?

He sniggers.

Kyle used to be ok. He used to come to my birthday parties. This year he’s become a right nob though.

Just ignore him, Caro. He’s just an idiot.

Neesh whispers to me.

At the end of the day I fling open the gate to the towpath. Nobody else comes out this way. It creaks and clangs against the school wall. I shove it again as it swings back towards me. CLANG and creeeaak. And again. CLANG. There’s a chunky stone on the ground. It’s like an old grey tennis ball. I kick it hard. Hard as I can. Ayii! Wincing; sharp pain in my big toe. The stone skitters through the gravel and rough grass before tumbling into the canal with a satisfying plop.

Lucky stone.

Nobody will ever see it again.

I watch the ripples until they disappear and then run home as fast as I can. Past all the other boats towards ours. Wishing I’d just made up some stupid creature like everybody else did. I don’t understand why they found it funny. Don’t know why they laughed at me.

Idiots. Like Neesh said; idiots.

I’m never going to mention the Carid to them again.

. . . .

PRIMARY

(Autumn)

No school today! It’s Saturday. Time for us to move. To cruise. Looks blowy on the water but Mum says it’ll die down. Turns the key halfway. Holds it. We count to twenty. Twenty-ish, listening to the tick below. Mum fires up Maybug.

Jaggedy-splutter-hagggahaggahaga.

The exhaust kicks out a fumey puff. The engine steadies to an even chug. We get ready to cast off.

Debbie’s on her way by. Out walking Elsa. Gives us a wave. She’s moored a couple of boats along.

Always reminds me of my first ciggie when they cough like that on starting.

Mum laughs and rolls her eyes. She picks up our tiller-pin; a brass pig with wings. Slots it in place, securing the handle, and gives the rudder a waggle. Tiny whirlpools shift in the murk below.

Didn’t realise you smoked, Debs!

Debbie laughs hard and breaks into a hacking cough herself.

Never done me any harm.

She wheezes with a smile.

Where y’off to?

Water, bins and pump-out; The Holy Trinity. Probably moor up just beyond The Lighterman. I don’t much feel like going far in this breeze.

These days we only do little cruises really. Means we’re never far from school. Mum says we used to go further; when I was smaller. When she could just pop me in a sling on her back. She was a welder back then. She worked on and off for loads of different boatyards and workshops, but she stopped after a while.

I love welding if only it weren’t for the men. Most of them know nothing but all of them can’t wait to comment.

Sometimes they used to really wind her up. Not a fan of men; my mum.

Debbie cackles another hacking cough, hair flailing around her in the wind. She whistles for Elsa who’s busy tussling with Grebe over the remains of an old football. Now a misshapen lump of black rubber coated in weeds and drool. The dogs ignore us. Both busy; all shaking legs and growling toothy tugging.

Elsa! C’mon now. Good girl. Playtime over. Drop that filthy thing!

Elsa sometimes puts Grebe in his place but mostly they get on. Mum grimaces;

Ugh. That looked t’be full of water. Grebe’s gonna be doing canal-farts all day!

I giggle. Debbie and Elsa head off in the other direction.

You ok to sort the bow line, Caro? Thanks love. On you hop, Grebe. Good boy.

He scampers back toward the stern as I pull up the front mooring pins, place them on the bow, and step aboard with the rope.

It’s gusty out but nothing that’ll bother Mum. I sit right up on tip of the bow, dangling one leg either side above the water. Feeling the shape of my face in the wind. It’s mostly head-on today. Headwinds are definitely easier to cope with than gusts from the side or back.

Passing through the cabin to join Mum at the tiller, I notice her mug on the side. It’s steaming with just-poured black coffee. I collect it as I go. She’d only send me back down for it in a few minutes anyway.

Grebe’s curled up on the boards above engine bay, staring off the back of the boat. Mum says it’s most likely because the engine warms them through from below. Either that or he must like the vibrations. I hand her the coffee and take my place beside her. Tiller between us; we lean shoulder to shoulder and she loops her arm into mine.

Thanks, love. Chilly isn’t it?

It’s crisp and cold but squinty bright. Red, brown, orange and yellow autumn leaves float on the water. The wind has eased, just like Mum knew it would. Dew is streaming down the painted steel and pooling on the gunwales as we chug along. No faster than a walk. Rays of sunshine light up the thick mist which swirls just above the water. It’s like we’re cruising through wet soupy clouds. There’s a heron who takes off in front of us, uttering a snarking croaking caw as it flies ahead of us over the water before landing on a branch. As we catch up, it does the same all over again. Herons do this sometimes. Take off and land, take off and land, take off and land. Always just a few flaps ahead as we go.

Hiya Patrick. There’e goes, Caro.

Mum calls all the herons Patrick. She takes a sip of the coffee and squints into the sun. Breath and steam hanging in the air above the mug.

Oh. . If we end up moored near Bob ‘n Betty, do you fancy nipping along to drop back the sander? I think Crazy Horse is still in the same spot by the winding hole.

Sure.

I imagine you’ll get some cake or something too!

Probably, yeah.

I smile. Wondering who will be in if I go.

I rest my head against Mum’s shoulder and we watch the world divide as our narrowboat cuts through the water ahead. Easing the throttle back to an upright position, we slow up to pass other boats. Leaning into each other, we gently guide the tiller, still nestled between our looped arms. Hands in fluff-lined pockets. Huddled together. A dozy morning. The air is wet but the sun is warm on our faces.

We’re filling up our water tank today. The next tap is coming up after this bend; just beyond the old stone bridge. Mum brings us in slowly and I run to the bow to fetch our hose.

The towpath here widens to join a gravelly track, allowing cars to reach a little row of canal-side houses. There’s a stables somewhere beyond and horses sometimes come down this way too. Grebe always tries to eat the poo. It’s gross. Attached to the houses is a pub called The Lighterman and behind that, in a little fenced area, there’s a couple of big plastic bins for boaters. You don’t get many cars on the track because the main parking for the pub is on the other side, but you do get the odd one every now and again, crunching slowly along the gravel, so we keep an eye on Grebe whenever we stop here.

We’ve been filling for a few minutes now, our dark green hose dangles over the near side of Maybug’s bow and snakes across the gravel to the tap, which only just peeks out from a pipe set deep within a thick brambly hedge at the side of The Lighterman’s beer-garden. You’d miss it if you didn’t know to look. Which can be useful in some ways. Means it’s rarely in use.

A jeep starts down the track toward us, wobbling side to side as it turns off the main road and over the speed bump at the far end. Mum climbs up onto the bow to collect the hose and drag it out the way. She doesn’t mind cyclists going over it but tries to move it out the way of cars or anything heavier, especially if there’s tarmac or gravel beneath. We’ve gone through a few hoses over the years. There’s a guy in a parka jacket coming down the track too now and the jeep stops for a chat. Mum’s hovering, but in the end, returns the hose to the tank and we continue filling.

Watch them please, Caro. Move the hose before they get too close. I don’t want a great big thing like that running over it.

She ducks inside to stick the kettle on the hob.

Whoever is in the jeep must know the guy in the parka pretty well. I can hear them laughing in that way men do sometimes; like it’s a performance, not just a chat. Eventually the guy in the parka slaps the jeep and shuffles off in the other direction. The jeep’s horn blares a few times in reply and starts rolling toward us again. Mum pops her head out through the side hatch and passes me a mug of tea. I like it milky with a spoonful of brown sugar. If Mum’s adding it she uses the littlest teaspoon. When I’m doing it I use the biggest.

Finished nattering have they? Hold this.

She hands me her mug too and reappears at the bow a moment later, waving at the jeep to slow a little so she can cross the track, taking the hose with her to get it out the way. But the jeep just flashes its lights and doesn’t stop. It’s not going very fast but they clearly haven’t got the message. Either that or they don’t care. The low wintery sun is pinging off their windscreen so we still can’t really see who’s inside. Mum’s half across the track now gathering the hose. The jeep sounds its horn impatiently and revs the engine, continuing to roll slowly towards her. By this point, Mum is fuming and stands directly in front of it.

Can’t yeh see am tryin’t’ move the hose!? Jus’ wait a fuckin’ second, would’yeh?

Pip always says Mum gets more northern when she’s angry.

The jeep winds its window down. I know the men inside. Moggo and Crispin. They’re the kind of men that stare. Fix their eyes on you and smirk. The jeep must be new; usually Moggo and Crispin just hang around by a bridge or on a bench. They always leave litter. Right now they’re both laughing at Mum. They’ve stopped with the front tyres a couple of inches from our hose, so Mum has to bend down right under the bumper to scoop it out.

On the rag are you, love!! Keep yer 'air on!

I’ve heard Mum and Pip talking about Moggo and Crispin. Usually after I’ve gone to bed. Usually with swearwords. Mum always calls them a pair of right dickheads and then, after a couple of drinks; worse.

She’s on the passenger side now, reeling in the hose so it’s well and truly off the track.

While you’re down there!

Moggo, the nearest, yells, glancing sideways across at Crispin and rolling his eyes.