The Boat

by Clara Salaman Narrated by Leon Williams

Overview

It was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime...
Johnny and his new bride Clem have arrived in Turkey for a year's honeymoon. Young, blissfully happy but poor, they are surviving on love, luck and a spirit of adventure.
So when a boat appears, crewed by a bohemian couple, they do not think twice about stepping on board. But all is not as it seems. And when they finally open their eyes to the truth, the boat is in the middle of the vast open sea...

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171252304
Publisher:	W. F. Howes Ltd
Publication date:	06/05/2014
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

The Boat

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By Clara Salaman

Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © 2014 Clara Salaman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78185-584-3

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CHAPTER 1

The Beginning

Johnny's dad had asked Rob and him to look out for the girls on the beach while he went to the chandler's in Padstow. They'd intended to do the brotherly thing, but Rob had ended up buying some dope off the lifeguard and they'd sat on the sand dunes getting stoned in the sunshine. They'd lost track of the girls hours ago. The last Johnny had seen of them, they were mucking about in the rock pools doing whatever it was that eleven-year-old girls did.

Johnny lay there sifting hot sand through his fingers, turning a perfect heart-shaped little piece of slate over in his hand, feeling the warm sun on his back, discussing the merits of trimarans versus catamarans with Rob, when his attention was caught by Sarah's little friend over Rob's right shoulder, up high in the sand dunes beyond. She was perched at the very top, back to the sea, poised, knees bent, arms stretched out in front of her. He wondered what she was doing. She looked like an animal about to pounce, her attention firmly fixed on the whispering grasses in front of her. Then, to his immense surprise – he was pretty wrecked – she threw herself backwards high up into the air, forming a perfectly piked backwards somersault, gracefully flying through the blue Cornish sky. She landed neatly on her feet at the bottom of the dune, facing the sea, before skipping forwards on to the harder wetter sand.

Johnny choked on the spliff. 'Rob! Did you see that?'

Rob gave a cursory glance over his shoulder. 'No,' he said.

'Watch Clemmie!'

So they both watched as she climbed back up the dune, scrabbling nimbly up the sand, like a sun-kissed nymph in her blue and white stripy swimming costume, Johnny noticing the tan lines on her perky little bum. She jumped sideways to avoid Sarah who was doing rather heavy forward rolls down the dune.

'Wait for it!' he said to Rob, leaning on one elbow, making himself comfortable, eyes on this new vision: her strong, brown limbs, her copper hair blowing about wildly in the salty breeze. How on earth could he not have noticed her before? Even the sunlight seemed to be lighting her differently today, as if she were something that had to be highlighted. Two minutes ago she hadn't even registered in his mind – of course he'd known her for years as his little sister's friend, and she'd been down to Cornwall a couple of times, but he'd never paid her any real attention. For the first time he was seeing her, as if he had borrowed some binoculars and there she was in sharp focus, Sarah's friend, a whole new species: a 'Clemency Bailey'. Once again, she took her position, frozen, poised, and then threw herself backwards fearlessly, arching and twisting against the sky but this time, open-bodied, slow and leisurely.

Rob sat up and wolf-whistled her. She turned around then and saw them watching her and she took a deep, flourishing, theatrical bow before scrabbling back up to the top again.

'She's going to be a right little heartbreaker,' Rob said, but Johnny could tell that his mind was back on trimarans, which suited him just fine; he preferred watching her over his shoulder, having her all to himself.

Then later that night everyone had gone for a walk along the surf because the moon was full – his mum was always coming up with hippie reasons for excursions – and on the way back to the cottage Clemmie had declared that she was going to go swimming and he had found himself deliberately dawdling, saying to no one in particular, 'I'd better keep an eye on her, there's a rip tide.' Even when she'd said she didn't need an eye on her, she was almost twelve, big enough to swim without eyes on her, still he'd sat down on the dry sand at the water's edge as the others wandered back.

'I'll have a smoke then,' he said and she'd shrugged her shoulders.

'It's a free country.'

And he'd been quite taken aback by the carefree way she had pulled her dress over her head and taken off her knickers without so much as a backwards glance at him. Then he'd watched her run into the sea, shrieking in the waves as they knocked her over, the moonlight shining on her naked body.

'Come in!' she yelled to him as he sat there on the sand and it had felt good to be invited into her watery world where all the fun was going on. She wasn't to know that Johnny never went in the cold British sea, only on it. Even when capsizing dinghy sailing, he prided himself on never getting wet; he'd neatly step on to the centreboard, straddling the hull and righting the boat, barely wetting a toe.

'Chicken Licken!' she shouted, diving under a wave, disappearing into the water, the starry night her backdrop.

'Come in, Johnny!' She was waving at him, slippery and shining. He felt for the first time as if he was in the wrong place, here, dry on the beach, when it looked so much better over there with her in the water.

'Help!' she cried, pretending to drown. 'Shark!' She went under and stuck her legs up in the air, walking on her hands.

Then, quite out of character, Johnny found himself ripping off his clothes and running in. 'Emergency services are here! Worry not!' he shouted, splashing into the icy water. 'Holy shit!' he yelled as the water hit his nuts. The thrill of the chill, the suck and the pull of the current made him whelp. Clemmie was swimming towards him, faking struggle, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her manfully into his arms, picking her up like a damsel in distress.

'I've got you. You're safe! Now where's that naughty shark?' he said, flexing a bicep.

She gave a throaty chuckle – he'd noticed that laugh of hers – and wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He could feel her nakedness against his stomach, the coolness of flesh on flesh. She turned her face to his. They were inches apart, locked together, not laughing any more but serious, intense, staring into each other's moon-shining eyes, and a strange sensation went through Johnny: a warm rush seemed to flood through his entire being as if a void he had never known existed was being filled up and it struck him that he had been waiting for this moment for all of his fourteen years; whatever it was, this was it! This was the essence of life! He wanted time to stop just for a moment until he had fully grasped it but already she was slipping out of his arms. She had let the water pull her away and was lying on her back looking up at the stars.

For she had felt it too; she lay there, floating, eyes to the heavens, surrendering herself to the waves, pleasantly startled by what had just occurred, this new sensation in her body, all slippery and buzzing. She felt alive. Something had shifted inside her, away from childish things. She let the waves wash over her and carry her back to the shore, suddenly aware of her own nakedness as she stood up and ran back through the surf to the dry sand.

A little while later they sat in silence watching the sea, wet, dripping and newly intimate. She was wearing his jumper; it hung gigantically around her small frame. She'd tucked her knees up to her chin inside it to keep herself warm, drops of seawater running down her cheek.

'Do you believe there are monsters out there?' she asked him, squinting out at the dark horizon.

'Yes,' he said. 'Why not?'

She liked that. She believed in monsters. She believed in everything.

'That red dot could be an eye,' she said, pointing far out to sea.

'Or a fishing boat.'

'Look! There's a green one!'

'Same boat. She's turning.'

'How do you know?'

'Red light's left side of the boat – port. Green's right – starboard. It's white now, that's the stern. She's heading out. West.'

'Where's it going?'

'Fishing.'

'I know that, Johnny. I meant if it carried on going straight, where would it end up?'

'America, I suppose. No, Canada even.'

'Wow.' She sucked the end of a piece of salty hair. 'Have you been to America?' she asked.

'No. Not yet. But I will one day. I'll sail there.' He liked it when she looked at him like that, shining her light at him; he didn't want her to look away.

'Really?'

'Yup. I'm going to build my own boat, mono-hull, ketch – wooden, of course. Teak decks, double- ended. She'll be the most beautiful boat on the ocean. And then I'm going to sail her single-handedly around the world.' He couldn't help showing off a bit. But it was true, that was exactly what he was going to do.

She was staring at him. Whatever it was that had shifted earlier on inside her, she could feel it starting again and it most definitely came from him. It was as if he knew her; it was as if they were connected. He was everything she wanted to be – chiefly, an adventurer. 'Johnny, can I come? Can I sail round the world with you?'

He laughed. 'Then it wouldn't be single-handed.'

'Who cares? We could do it double-handed.'

He smiled, getting out his tobacco. 'Well, perhaps we could.' He started rolling a cigarette.

'Roll us a ciggie!' she said, all excited now that they had some sort of arrangement. 'A nice big fat one like you were smoking on the dunes.'

'Do you smoke?' he asked, pleased that she'd been watching him.

'Not yet. Johnny? Why did you call a boat a "her"?'

He turned in towards her, away from the wind, to roll the cigarette. 'Because of the shape – all curves and elegance, like a woman.'

'Oh!' she said. 'Am I curved and elegant?'

'Well, you're only eleven.'

'Yes,' she said, annoyed with herself; eleven seemed a ridiculous age to be, neither one thing nor the other. 'And three-quarters.'

'I stand corrected.'

'I've got a boyfriend,' she said, as if that might make her a bit older.

'Yeh?'

'Yup. Roger Benson. We've touched tongues and every- thing.'

Johnny whistled. 'Go for it, Roger.'

He cupped his hands and struck the match, the red flame of the phosphorus briefly blinding him. He felt her watching him and he liked it. He inhaled and blew the smoke out into the air and then passed her the cigarette. Their fingers were clammy with dampness and the cigarette stuck so he held it to her mouth as she tentatively leant forwards. He could feel the softness of her lips against his fingertips.

She coughed. 'Yuck,' she said, spitting out a strand of tobacco.

'It's disgusting at first. You have to get used to it.'

'Do I? Oh, I will.' She was determined to get it right; her lips sought out the cigarette again. He fed her another drag. This time she breathed in without coughing but clearly not enjoying it.

'Good girl,' he said and she smiled proudly. He noticed for the first time how her two front teeth crossed a little and he thought that one day a boy might get obsessed with teeth like that.

'Johnny? Have you got a girlfriend?'

He leant back on his elbows and watched the fishing boat. 'Not exactly,' he said.

'What does that mean?'

'It means not exactly.'

She twisted around and lay on her front, looking at him. 'OK. I'll decide,' she said. 'Have you touched tongues?'

He looked her in the eye, straight-faced. 'Yes, we have.'

'Then yes, you've got a girlfriend,' she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She sat up again and went back to watching the fishing boat winking out in the Atlantic. Of course he had a girlfriend: looking like he did, smoking like he did, being an adventurer like he was.

'Are you going to marry her?' she asked.

Johnny laughed. 'No.'

'Why not?'

He took a long, slow drag of the cigarette. 'Because she's already married.'

She turned to him slowly, her jaw dropping, her eyes widening, her lungs filling. 'Wow! How old is she?'

'Thirty-five,' he said, watching the thrill dart about her lovely face.

'Oh my God!' she cried, delighted. 'She's an old woman, Johnny! You're only fourteen.'

A couple of months ago Johnny had been babysitting for a friend of his mum's when she'd come home unexpectedly early, smelling sweetly of red wine. She'd stopped him in the hall, slipped some cash into his breast pocket, told him he was the sexiest young man she'd ever come across and then, to his immense surprise, pressed her blue lips against his. One thing had led to another and she'd whisked away his virginity on a Superman blanket on the sofa, minutes before her husband came home. He'd been doing a fair amount of babysitting since then.

'Don't tell Sarah, Clemmie.'

'I won't,' she said, zipping her mouth and leaning back on her hands. She liked secrets. But she didn't quite know what to do with this one. She let it churn about her head for a bit but whichever way she looked at it, it kept making her feel peculiar.

The fishing vessel had turned south now, only its port light visible. They were sitting very close, watching it progress, the warm westerly wind blowing the hair off their faces.

'Johnny,' she said quietly, her dark eyes looking up at his. 'Will you marry me one day? When your girlfriend dies?'

He laughed.

'I'm serious,' she said.

His laughter ebbed away and he became serious too – she was exactly the kind of girl he would marry some day. 'OK,' he said.

'Promise?' she said.

He nodded.

'You have to give me something, so it's a real promise.' She seemed to know, even then, that time needed to be marked.

'I haven't got anything.'

Then he remembered. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the little heart-shaped piece of slate he'd been smoothing on the beach.

'Jonathan Love, will you marry me?'

Johnny was standing in the hall by the kitchen where the phone was. She'd rung during supper and his dad, Rob and Sarah were all listening in case it was for them.

'It is Johnny, isn't it?' she said.

'Speaking.'

'It's Clem.' He must have paused. 'Clemency Bailey. Remember me?'

He certainly did.

'Clemmie,' she said. 'Only I'm Clem now.'

'Well, hello there!' he said. 'Of course I remember you.'

She sounded different to how he remembered: her voice was deeper. Then again she was probably just grown up. If he was seventeen now, she would have to be fifteen. Her family had moved out of Putney years ago but had recently returned and presumably she'd rung up to speak to his sister.

'Has your girlfriend died yet?' she asked.

He didn't know what she was referring to but he didn't fancy being overheard so he shut the hall door with his body, spinning the flex around his finger. It was pure chance that it was he who'd answered the phone rather than Rob or Sarah. He'd only just got back from crewing on a delivery to the Caribbean and was shortly off to take another boat over so he felt lucky to have caught her.

'What are you talking about? I haven't got a girlfriend,' he said.

'You said you'd marry me when your girlfriend died.'

'Did I?' He was smiling. 'What girlfriend was that then?'

'The married one.'

The affair with his mother's friend was long over. Her husband had found Johnny's sock under the bed with his name tape on it and had gone a bit mental.

'Well?' she asked.

'I am indeed available for marriage,' he replied. 'How about meeting up first though, just to go through dates and times?'

He met her in the Blue Anchor by the river in Hammersmith just as the sun was setting. The tide was high and the ducks were swimming in the trees. He'd come on his bike, a Triumph Tiger Cub he'd bought for a song in Loot which he was now doing up. Although he'd put brand-spanking-new spark plugs in, she'd stalled on the bridge and he'd had to push her to the pub, so he was a bit late.

He recognized Clemency Bailey straight away. She was sitting at a table outside, smoking a cigarette – like a pro, he noticed. She stood up when she saw him and waved. He was dazzled by her as he had hoped he might be. In some way she seemed responsible for, or at least a part of, the magnificent pink altostratus cloud display behind her. She was wearing jeans and a loose white top and he could see her cleavage, the soft roundness of her little tits, and he remembered with a pang how he had once held her naked body in the sea. Only she had been a child then. 'Hi,' she said.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Boat by Clara Salaman. Copyright © 2014 Clara Salaman. Excerpted by permission of Head of Zeus Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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