it’s fine.’ He smiled at me again. ‘No harm done.’
‘Thank you . . . for not running my dog over.’
He frowned and shook his head. ‘As if I’d have run into him if I could avoid it. What do you think I am?’
Was he cross? He didn’t look cross. I hadn’t meant to insult him. ‘Sorry, it’s just . . . it’s my fault and I feel bad. And your back . . . is there someone in on your boat who can help you clean it up because it’s really dangerous to get dirt in cuts and you should get it seen to as quickly as possible. It could get infected. My house is just here if you want to come in and wash it off . . .’ As soon as I said it, I wanted to snatch the words back. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’d think I was coming on to him . . .
‘Oh no, that’s . . . er . . . nice of you, but I, er . . .’
My face burned. ‘I only asked because you’re bleeding really badly, and do you even have a shower on a boat? And . . . and you won’t report us to the police for having an out of control dog, will you?’
‘God, no!’ He looked like I’d suggested he ate babies. ‘Of course not.’ He chewed on his lip and watched me from under his lashes, which fascinated me because really that was a girl’s thing to do, but it didn’t seem girly at all when he did it. ‘Sure, we’ve got a shower. It’s got everything you get in a house.’
He said it significantly, like I was supposed to understand something from that. I didn’t.
‘We live on the boat,’ he said after a pause. ‘All the time. We’re not really supposed to be moored down there.’
I got it, finally. ‘Oh . . . oh right. Look, my mum and dad are out if you’re worried about awkward questions. They’ve taken my little brother ice skating and won’t be back for ages.’
He had an odd look on his face. It was only later that I realised properly what it reminded me of. A few years ago we’d visited a nature reserve with Dartmoor ponies. If we approached very quietly and held our hands out, and waited, and waited, then sometimes they would come to us. With that same wary look in their eyes that the boat boy had as he said, ‘You won’t say anything about our boat, will you? I don’t want you to lie, but –’
‘No. Are you kidding? My parents would go ballistic if they knew I’d let Raggs run off and cause an accident.’
A lump of horse turd fell off his back. He stared at it solemnly and that appeared to decide him. ‘Er, can I come in after all? I stink, and Mum’s wound up enough about . . . stuff . . . without me coming home like this.’
I pointed him through the garden gate leading off the paddock. ‘That’s the back door. I’ll be one minute,’ and I jogged Scrabble down the field to the loosebox. He wasn’t too sweaty and it was so warm I decided that he could dry off in the field without a rub-down. By the time I got to the house, the boat boy had found the outside tap. He was crouched underneath the stream of cold water, trying to sluice the muck off his back without getting his jeans wet. His screwed-up face said how much it hurt.
‘You could have done that inside.’
‘Don’t want to drop crap all over your house.’ He shifted his shoulder to angle the water stream on to a dirtier part.
‘Um, you’ve got some in your hair.’
He groaned and stuck his head under the tap. ‘Has it gone?’
‘Nearly. Not quite. No, left a bit.’ I gathered up my courage as the water missed the spot again and grabbed his head, manoeuvring it into place. I gave his hair a quick rub to get the muck out, but it wasn’t coming off his back at all.
‘You’ll get it on your hands,’ was his only response. No ‘eww, don’t touch me, Shrek – you make me vom’.
‘It’s no worse than mucking out. Besides, it’s my fault.’ I took the opportunity to have a closer look at his back. ‘Look, this is no good. Hang on.’
I left him under the tap and went inside the house. Hopefully Raggs wouldn’t bounce around and
‘Thank you . . . for not running my dog over.’
He frowned and shook his head. ‘As if I’d have run into him if I could avoid it. What do you think I am?’
Was he cross? He didn’t look cross. I hadn’t meant to insult him. ‘Sorry, it’s just . . . it’s my fault and I feel bad. And your back . . . is there someone in on your boat who can help you clean it up because it’s really dangerous to get dirt in cuts and you should get it seen to as quickly as possible. It could get infected. My house is just here if you want to come in and wash it off . . .’ As soon as I said it, I wanted to snatch the words back. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’d think I was coming on to him . . .
‘Oh no, that’s . . . er . . . nice of you, but I, er . . .’
My face burned. ‘I only asked because you’re bleeding really badly, and do you even have a shower on a boat? And . . . and you won’t report us to the police for having an out of control dog, will you?’
‘God, no!’ He looked like I’d suggested he ate babies. ‘Of course not.’ He chewed on his lip and watched me from under his lashes, which fascinated me because really that was a girl’s thing to do, but it didn’t seem girly at all when he did it. ‘Sure, we’ve got a shower. It’s got everything you get in a house.’
He said it significantly, like I was supposed to understand something from that. I didn’t.
‘We live on the boat,’ he said after a pause. ‘All the time. We’re not really supposed to be moored down there.’
I got it, finally. ‘Oh . . . oh right. Look, my mum and dad are out if you’re worried about awkward questions. They’ve taken my little brother ice skating and won’t be back for ages.’
He had an odd look on his face. It was only later that I realised properly what it reminded me of. A few years ago we’d visited a nature reserve with Dartmoor ponies. If we approached very quietly and held our hands out, and waited, and waited, then sometimes they would come to us. With that same wary look in their eyes that the boat boy had as he said, ‘You won’t say anything about our boat, will you? I don’t want you to lie, but –’
‘No. Are you kidding? My parents would go ballistic if they knew I’d let Raggs run off and cause an accident.’
A lump of horse turd fell off his back. He stared at it solemnly and that appeared to decide him. ‘Er, can I come in after all? I stink, and Mum’s wound up enough about . . . stuff . . . without me coming home like this.’
I pointed him through the garden gate leading off the paddock. ‘That’s the back door. I’ll be one minute,’ and I jogged Scrabble down the field to the loosebox. He wasn’t too sweaty and it was so warm I decided that he could dry off in the field without a rub-down. By the time I got to the house, the boat boy had found the outside tap. He was crouched underneath the stream of cold water, trying to sluice the muck off his back without getting his jeans wet. His screwed-up face said how much it hurt.
‘You could have done that inside.’
‘Don’t want to drop crap all over your house.’ He shifted his shoulder to angle the water stream on to a dirtier part.
‘Um, you’ve got some in your hair.’
He groaned and stuck his head under the tap. ‘Has it gone?’
‘Nearly. Not quite. No, left a bit.’ I gathered up my courage as the water missed the spot again and grabbed his head, manoeuvring it into place. I gave his hair a quick rub to get the muck out, but it wasn’t coming off his back at all.
‘You’ll get it on your hands,’ was his only response. No ‘eww, don’t touch me, Shrek – you make me vom’.
‘It’s no worse than mucking out. Besides, it’s my fault.’ I took the opportunity to have a closer look at his back. ‘Look, this is no good. Hang on.’
I left him under the tap and went inside the house. Hopefully Raggs wouldn’t bounce around and
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