Tripping Over. John Hickman

bath. ‘After you’ve got used to it, love, it isn’t so hot.’

      Our new boat soon presented at the boat builders as a largish cabin cruiser with an inboard motor.

      Dad was thoughtful and a little sad when he said, ‘You know it’s unlikely we’ll ever use those two bunks up the pointy end, Alice.’

      ‘You’re right, dear, but I can put out your change of clothes. And the small galley with its stove and sink will be ideal for me to make your cup of tea.’ Mum beamed.

      ‘Oh well, I suppose we’ve all got stuff in our past that in hindsight isn’t too clever,’ Gran huffed. ‘But tell me, Son, as you don’t like water why buy a boat?’

      Dad cast Gran a disapproving look. ‘It’s a lifestyle thing, Mother. Anyway what could possibly go wrong on a river? After all, it’s hardly the rolling deep, is it?’

      

      Anxious to be ahead of the game Dad named our new boat Alice Mary after Mum and arranged a mooring at the French Horn Hotel at Sonning, situated on a backwater of the River Thames.

      His pride and joy was to be delivered by the boat builders who were expert sailors. I watched Dad as he puffed at his pipe while he gave instructions over the phone. ‘It’s to be moored at their landing stage at the foot of their manicured lawns,’ he explained.

      Dad also arranged for the hotel to provide a range of suitable refreshments to coincide with our embarkation. ‘Nothing is to be left to chance,’ he insisted. Dad wanted to impress Mum. Visions of crisp white tablecloths laden with goodies while he christened his new toy sustained Dad throughout his working week.

      He promised Mum, ‘We’ll spend many a glorious weekend at the French Horn Hotel and we’ll have the best of both worlds with fun days out in our boat. We’ll have a wonderful time, Sweetheart.’

      Mum was delighted. What better reason to get dolled up in the body hugging dress, the high heels, the bag, the hair.

      When we set out for the mooring on the Friday the weather had changed. Instead of the insipid pale blue sky promised by the weather forecasters, the sun was watery without warmth, hidden by thick grey, cloud cover. On our arrival the Alice Mary had a distinct lean away from the landing stage.

      ‘Oh, Bill!’ Mum closed her eyes.

      It was low tide. Although the boat didn’t have a deep draft, more water was needed at their landing stage than low tide provided. Dad’s fantasy dissolved. His shoulders sagged. He relit his pipe and appeared to fight hard to remain in character resplendent in his new double breasted yachting blazer and embroidered cap.

      Culinary professionals arrived with drinks as arranged. Dad’s energy transformed into nodding his head, blinking and trying to look pleased. Across his face was written, Oh, dear! All is lost. It’s time for a drink.

      ‘It’s been a busy week,’ Mum sighed as she sipped her Babycham. She looked to Dad for answers. Considerable discussion ensued about how we might board the vessel. Mum became irritated while Dad clung vehemently to his notion of a celebratory meal with drinks on board. Being feted like generals from some all-conquering army had been his plan but after several thoughtful puffs on his pipe, he conceded there was no room for inflated egos.

      Mum’s attempts to board in her figure hugging dress might prove unladylike. After a few Scotch and sodas, Dad gained confidence and tried to lead the way.

      His leather soled shoes, which were perfect for driving the Talbot, were unsuitable to gain traction on the polished deck. To steady himself he reached out for the boat canopy, which would have almost certainly saved him—had it been there.

      Caught off balance forced him to put his other foot down in the mud.

      He disappeared to his knee. Had he thought to put his pipe down first, the outcome may have been better. Dad’s facial expression revealed he’d come to realise the reality of his situation no longer matched his dream.

      I wanted to be aboard as any red blooded young man would but Mum decided against the idea. ‘John, no! You’ll get wet. Stay here.’

      ‘But, Mum. I can’t get wet. There’s no water.’

      ‘Be quiet,’ Dad snapped. ‘Do as your mother tells you, or it’s straight to bed for you, young man.’

      Mum mutated from comfortee to comforter. ‘Bill, why don’t we get chairs and a table set up on the landing stage? We can admire our brand new boat from here.’

      Caked as Dad was with river mud, he saw merit in her wisdom. ‘Good idea, Alice.’ And so our big celebration was conducted on the rustic landing stage itself.

      Mum continued on with a second Babycham while Dad drank copious Scotch and sodas. I made serious inroads into their stocks of chilled pineapple juice.

      As the tide began to rise, water lapped in and the boat began to right itself.

      A groundsman thoughtfully adjusted the mooring ropes. Dad’s mood improved with his intake of Scotch and the incoming tide. He puffed on his pipe and brushed dried mud from his trousers. ‘We’ve only suffered a slight setback, Alice.’

      Mum’s eyes glazed from the effect of a third Babycham. As the area at the landing stage was far too shallow for the Alice Mary at low tide, Dad was advised by hotel management to move her upstream. That meant a hike out in the rough at the furthest edge of the property.

      To board we would need to negotiate a steep and uneven riverbank. Even with care and correct footwear Dad knew he would have to have his wits about him. Still waters do indeed run deep and to make matters worse supplies for our day’s outing needed to be ferried, which proved troublesome without proper road access.

      Mum became upset with worry. ‘What if John slips and falls into the river, Bill? At best he’s a poor swimmer and prone to panic. Whatever might happen next?’

      

      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,