The Dragonfly

Chapter Three-2

He couldn’t be certain, but he thought that the word merde slipped from her in a whisper.

“I built her. From scratch. Never built anything in my life before, but I built the Dragonfly. I borrowed a book about how to do it from the library. Built her in my back garden. She’s fourteen foot long – a day boat, for fishing.”

The child was looking at him, her face uncomprehending, “Do you like fishing?” he asked, to fill the gathering silence.

The child shook her head.

“Come aboard, why don’t you?” He leapt down onto the deck then held out his hand, expectantly.

She looked at her bag, then at the boat. She folded her arms.

He tried to picture what it would be like to see the Dragonfly for the first time, but he could only view her through the lens of his own pride and delight: the flowing line of her, so close to the water; her beautiful duck egg blue paint and the compact precision of the cabin with its three tiny portholes on either side.

He made beckoning motions with his arm. “Come on,” he said encouragingly.

The child had anticipated the problem before him. “I cannot install myself…” she said, her mouth all bunched to one side. “It is not possible.”

Once again he gestured her down, “Oh, you’ll get used to it in a jiffy.”

“If I am staying on the boat,” she hopped off the pontoon and onto the deck, “Then there’s no room for my sac. If my sac is staying on the boat,” she clambered back onto the pontoon and to demonstrate heaved her luggage over the edge so that it filled the deck entirely, causing the Dragonfly to sit ominously low in the water, “Then I must stay on the ground.”

“Ahh. Yes. I see. I do see what you mean.” Colin scratched his head. “Well, obviously, it’s you that we want on the boat,” he reached towards her bag, as if to move it back on to dry land.

“I cannot make boating without my sac. It is not possible,” the child cried, her voice so hot and conflagrationary that he glanced around to see if anyone had heard.

“OK, OK–”

“It is everything I have. I need it. I cannot make boating without it.”

Rattled by the way in which things seemed to be disintegrating at a nought to sixty in under a minute speed, Colin spoke cautiously, “Right…”

She hesitated a moment and then, putting down a marker for future arguments, she pointed out crossly, “I am here for my grand-mère only, because she is asking…”

“And I’m here for your dad…”

“Then we have a problem, non–?”

“…and for you, of course.” He stared at the bag. “What exactly have you got in there?”

Before he could unzip the zip, the child had jumped back on board almost capsizing the Dragonfly and flattened herself onto the bag. “My affairs,” she snapped.

At least they were both on the boat, with the wretched bag. The two of them stared at one another.

“Look,” Colin began. “Why don’t you unpack your stuff, then we can work out what you really need.”

“I have already said. I have need of everything. Everything.”

He had seen that expression on his son’s face. He could understand exactly what Madame Duvoisin meant. The child had Michael’s eyes, with their stealing hazel lights; she had the same colouring that he had had when he was little, although he couldn’t see her hair properly because of the hat, but the set of her jaw was his, and her wide mouth, and her slightly crooked teeth.

My son, he thought, the wound fresh every time. My boy.

How often had Michael stood before him, just like this, all ablaze? Diversionary tactics, he remembered, that’s what used to do the trick. “This is where we sleep,” he unbolted the hatch, which was about two foot square, “It’s very clever, look,” he slid the catches on the inside of the hatch and two legs unfolded, “See, it turns into a table, which slots in–” he viewed the bag, “–just there.”

In spite of herself, the child was intrigued by the cabin and she crawled inside. There were two miniature bunks with a gap the size of a wedge of cheese between them. She lay down on the one on the port side, testing it out. “There is no space,” she observed.

Colin poked his head through the hatch. “When it’s time to turn over, it’s time to turn out, that’s what Napoleon said. He was one of yours,” he added. He had to reverse his way into the cabin because once he was inside there was no room to turn around. He flipped up the mattress to starboard, revealing a locker. “There’s one on your side too, for your clothes.”

He hunched himself up as the child leaned through the opening, undid her bag and started lifting things through. A couple of times she glanced combatively over her shoulder at him. Among the stacks of T-shirts and skirts (she hadn’t got a single pair of shorts), he could make out a few paperback books (good), a smart phone (not so good), a pad and some felt tips, half a dozen pots of nail varnish, a kit for making beads from papier-mâché, a photo album, several comics and a soft toy that resembled a scrawny, lanky monkey with Velcro on its hands and feet.

“This is Amandine,” she said, “She’s from Madagascar.”

“Well, clearly Amandine must stay, if she’s come all the way from Madagascar,” Colin attempted a smile, which got no response. “But I’m not sure that you’re going to need the–” he counted them under his breath, “–eight skirts, are you?”

“But of course.” She tried stuffing them into her locker, which was bulging already. She sat back on her haunches and huffed a sigh. “They are mine. I need them.” She surveyed the scene, curling the hem of an orange dress with her toe. She scooped it up and inspected it, thoughtfully, then she tugged the dress on and pulled a skirt on over it, followed by two T-shirts and a pair of stripy cotton tights. She was reaching for a purple and turquoise pinafore, when Colin stretched across and stopped her.

“You’re going to get awfully hot like that.”

To his horror, the face she turned towards him was full of grief, buckling, brimming grief. Her arms were crammed with clothes and she buried her face in them. “I need… I need…”

The sight of it floored him. “Right,” he nodded after a beat or two. By stooping low and easing himself onto her bunk, he was able to lift his mattress and open his own locker. He scrabbled about inside and chucked a couple of pairs of trousers, most of his shirts and his second-best pair of shorts onto the deck. “I’ve got far too much stuff, actually. Much too much. More than I’ll ever wear.” He tried another smile, a warmer one this time. At the bottom of his locker were his waterproofs and his best shorts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and two T-shirts. “One to wear and one to wash,” he said bracingly.

The child regarded him.

“Plenty of room now.”

With her eyes still on his face, warily, she began to stuff things into his locker until it was so full they could barely fit the lid back on. In the end they lined the shelves under the mattresses with her tops and her fleeces, so that when they lay down to test out their living quarters, their faces were only a couple of feet from the ceiling. A curling little laugh escaped from her, but then she covered her mouth with her hand as if she had done something wrong.

They looked at one another.

“Where is the kitchen?” she asked, as if to change a subject which had never been broached.

Colin pointed to the seat on the starboard side of the deck. He clambered out of the cabin and lifted it up. “Here.” Inside was a Primus stove, three saucepans that fitted inside each other, a water carrier, some plastic cups and plates, some Tupperware boxes and two glass jars full of tea and coffee.

The child nodded. “And the bathroom?”

“Here.” Beneath the bench on the port side was a portapotti and a bucket with a sponge in it.

She nodded again. “What’s under there?” She pointed at the seat along the back of the boat.

“Everything else,” Moving the handle of the outboard motor to one side, he lifted the seat to show her the jerry can, the mallet, the mooring stakes, the spare rope, his fishing tackle.

“Merde,” she remarked, more admiringly this time, and he had to pretend that he didn’t understand.

~~~

Next door to the Dragonfly, the owners of the gin palace were watching satellite television, unmindful of the way that Paris wrapped itself around the marina, the street lights and illuminated windows of apartment blocks enamelling the night. Craning his neck, Colin could just make out their faces in the blue blur of the TV. He contemplated their portly contentment, trying to picture how it might feel. Thirty years ago, when he was still a man with dreams, he had imagined such companionable oblivion for himself and Sally.

He pulled a wry face and shivered, for down at canal level the air was dark as felt, but no longer warm. He tried dragging his T-shirt over his elbows, already regretting the cavalier way he had thrown most of his wardrobe out with the rubbish. The child had been so upset, so raw with all her sorrows. He leaned forward, peering into the cabin, for the curious experience of seeing her sleeping. She still had her hat on; although it was tipped back on her head and for the first time he could see her hair. He tilted the hurricane lamp so that he could study the different nuances of gold and brown, the corkscrew curls. She looked so vivid, even in her sleep. He half reached out, as if he just might touch her forehead. He tried to picture himself smoothing it with his hand, and how that would feel. With a sigh he scooped up Amandine, who had fallen out of the narrow bed. For some reason the sight of the monkey, with its fur thinning in places, one side of its head more worn than the other, moulded out of shape from too much loving, shook him right to the bone. Before he could contain it, something between a cough and a sob racked out of him, so that he had to press the creature against his chest to quiet himself.

Back on deck the night was cold. On impulse, he climbed onto the pontoon and made his way to the waste bins. Like some dispossessed old drunk he rooted through the rubbish bags until he found his own and yanked out a sweatshirt and jumper. He pulled them both on – a leaf out of the child’s book – and thought he would have his one cigarette of the day before he turned in.

He smoked it standing up beside the cabin door so that he could look down any time he liked and see his granddaughter. Earlier on, thinking what on earth he was going to do with her, he went across to the Capitainerie and bought a navigation book for the French waterways. His original plan had been to sit tight in Paris so that he could be on hand to help his son build his case. He stared into the asphalt dark. Well, that didn’t appear to be an option. He flicked his cigarette into the water, watching the fallout of bitter sparks. He knew that he couldn’t spend six weeks knocking about in the Arsenal Marina with a nine-year-old girl who’d need entertaining and amusing. He wouldn’t know where to begin. A trip would help him manufacture an adventure for her. Leaning down, he retrieved the navigation guide from the shelf above his bed and began leafing through charts showing mighty rivers like the Seine and the Yonne. He licked his lips. The Dragonfly had never been further than the Kennet and Avon canal – their finest hour to date had been a voyage to Avoncliff for a spot of fishing and a ploughman’s at the Cross Guns pub. With a cautious finger he traced the line of the river through the untamed banlieux of Paris, wondering what lay ahead of them now, and whether he or his beautiful little boat would be up to the job.