This stretch I hold the lease on is one of the few patches of soil on the river suitable for construction. For some weird topographic reason, this part of the river seems
immune from floods. He could make a fortune if he could get hold of the land. And there would be nothing to stop him if the lease was rendered invalid. He’s tried to buy me up several times.
That’s why he never quite gets round to threatening me. Because he thinks he can schmooze me. But I won’t sell. It’s my home. Also there’s the matter of
Strawberry.’
‘What’s Strawberry got to do with it?’
‘As I said, she lives here. She has nowhere else to go. And I’ve kind of adopted her. She visits Troy, but that’s on his good will. See that patch of trees? Standing a little
higher than the rest?’ He pointed to a line of beech trees around a quarter of a mile from the mooring. ‘Behind that is her little shack. No running water or electricity. Really just a
shed. But it’s dry, and livable in the summer. There’s a bed in there, and a primus stove for cooking and heating water. Strawberry’s been ensconced there since the spring –
that’s when she came over from America. I keep asking her to come and stay on the boat. It’s very isolated out there. But as I said, she’s stubborn. She wants to get back to
nature, she says. If my boat isn’t back to nature, I don’t know what is. Not close enough for her, though. She cultivates a vegetable garden, although all it’s produced so far is
a couple of potatoes, a carrot and a handful of radishes. So much for the properties of menstrual blood on the soil.
‘She sits in there and reads or meditates. Plays pat-a-cake with the ducks or fondles the trees. I’ve heard her talk to the flowers. God knows what she was saying. Really. Good kid,
though. Smart in her way. But she’s a fruitcake. Guess it comes from growing up in California. The fruitcake state.’
I was only half listening, so enthralled was I by the prospect of driving the car. I climbed into the driving seat. I understood that manipulating the clutch was the hardest part, so I felt with
my feet for it. But there were only two pedals.
‘It’s an automatic,’ said Henry. ‘Just an accelerator and a brake.’
I pressed my foot gently on the accelerator. The car lurched forward. Henry laughed as we both flew backwards. I tried again, more gently. This time, the car inched ahead.
I moved the wheel to the left slightly, and the car began to move towards the field gate. I pressed the accelerator again. We started to move at about five miles an hour. Without asking for any
permission from Henry, I began to accelerate. He said nothing. All he did was reach up and crank a handle above our head. The sun roof creaked open. Air and light poured through the gap.
I stopped in front of the gate. Henry got out. I expected him to take over, but he simply opened the gate so that I could manoeuvre the car on to the empty track. Henry shut the gate behind him
and climbed back into the passenger seat. We were off his land. I glanced at him, still presuming he was going to take over. But he said nothing, just looked straight ahead.
Surprised by both my recklessness and Uncle Henry’s indifference, I pushed the accelerator a little harder. Now we were moving along at twenty miles per hour. Henry began to hum a tune to
himself. I recognized it as an old song, Donovan’s ‘Sunshine Superman’.
It was several minutes before we saw another car. I had reached the road proper and needed to give way. A blue Ford Escort drove cautiously across our path. I raised a hand in acknowledgement,
enjoying the gesture for its premonition of the privileges of adulthood.
The country road stretched away in front of us. A warm rush of wind splayed my hair in front of my eyes, and I found enough confidence to brush it away, leaving me momentarily one-handed on the
wheel. Henry remained unconcerned. He seemed to believe absolutely that I was
immune from floods. He could make a fortune if he could get hold of the land. And there would be nothing to stop him if the lease was rendered invalid. He’s tried to buy me up several times.
That’s why he never quite gets round to threatening me. Because he thinks he can schmooze me. But I won’t sell. It’s my home. Also there’s the matter of
Strawberry.’
‘What’s Strawberry got to do with it?’
‘As I said, she lives here. She has nowhere else to go. And I’ve kind of adopted her. She visits Troy, but that’s on his good will. See that patch of trees? Standing a little
higher than the rest?’ He pointed to a line of beech trees around a quarter of a mile from the mooring. ‘Behind that is her little shack. No running water or electricity. Really just a
shed. But it’s dry, and livable in the summer. There’s a bed in there, and a primus stove for cooking and heating water. Strawberry’s been ensconced there since the spring –
that’s when she came over from America. I keep asking her to come and stay on the boat. It’s very isolated out there. But as I said, she’s stubborn. She wants to get back to
nature, she says. If my boat isn’t back to nature, I don’t know what is. Not close enough for her, though. She cultivates a vegetable garden, although all it’s produced so far is
a couple of potatoes, a carrot and a handful of radishes. So much for the properties of menstrual blood on the soil.
‘She sits in there and reads or meditates. Plays pat-a-cake with the ducks or fondles the trees. I’ve heard her talk to the flowers. God knows what she was saying. Really. Good kid,
though. Smart in her way. But she’s a fruitcake. Guess it comes from growing up in California. The fruitcake state.’
I was only half listening, so enthralled was I by the prospect of driving the car. I climbed into the driving seat. I understood that manipulating the clutch was the hardest part, so I felt with
my feet for it. But there were only two pedals.
‘It’s an automatic,’ said Henry. ‘Just an accelerator and a brake.’
I pressed my foot gently on the accelerator. The car lurched forward. Henry laughed as we both flew backwards. I tried again, more gently. This time, the car inched ahead.
I moved the wheel to the left slightly, and the car began to move towards the field gate. I pressed the accelerator again. We started to move at about five miles an hour. Without asking for any
permission from Henry, I began to accelerate. He said nothing. All he did was reach up and crank a handle above our head. The sun roof creaked open. Air and light poured through the gap.
I stopped in front of the gate. Henry got out. I expected him to take over, but he simply opened the gate so that I could manoeuvre the car on to the empty track. Henry shut the gate behind him
and climbed back into the passenger seat. We were off his land. I glanced at him, still presuming he was going to take over. But he said nothing, just looked straight ahead.
Surprised by both my recklessness and Uncle Henry’s indifference, I pushed the accelerator a little harder. Now we were moving along at twenty miles per hour. Henry began to hum a tune to
himself. I recognized it as an old song, Donovan’s ‘Sunshine Superman’.
It was several minutes before we saw another car. I had reached the road proper and needed to give way. A blue Ford Escort drove cautiously across our path. I raised a hand in acknowledgement,
enjoying the gesture for its premonition of the privileges of adulthood.
The country road stretched away in front of us. A warm rush of wind splayed my hair in front of my eyes, and I found enough confidence to brush it away, leaving me momentarily one-handed on the
wheel. Henry remained unconcerned. He seemed to believe absolutely that I was
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