The Last Summer of the Water Strider by Tim Lott Read Free Book Online

upper storey seemed to be set slightly at an angle, presumably in order to facilitate the run-off of rainwater. This gave the boat a rickety, off-centre air. There was a
decorative crenellated awning attached as a fringe to the first-floor-level base, also green, but punctuated with alternating leaves of white. The aft of the boat, at its furthermost point, where
the cabin and steering wheel might be located on a sea-going craft, held two rectangular windows, which faced us as we sat regarding the boat silently. The car, now unventilated by passing air,
heated up quickly to an uncomfortable level, and I climbed out, my trousers stickily unpeeling from the vinyl seat. Ray continued to sit behind the steering wheel, the motor still running, staring,
as if unable to take in his brother’s unconventional living arrangements. I don’t know what he had expected – pebbledash, perhaps, or carriage lamps.
    The front door, centred between the two rectangular windows, sat behind a small deck which supported two large ceramic pots containing delicate, red-leafed trees – which Henry later
identified as Japanese acers – on either side. The door was intricately carved with birds and flowers, and painted a livid purple which clashed somewhat with the serenity of the surrounding
green gloss. Somehow the whole construction had the feel of a gypsy caravan, although it was much larger than any caravan I had ever seen. Both stern and aft were squared off – it clearly
wasn’t a boat that was built for river cruising. There was a sun terrace on the higher level, framed by a white rail at waist height. A lounger was stretched out on it, the canvas material
decorated with wide blue and white deckchair stripes. A ragged, nubby white towel was draped over the angled back.
    The feeling of the boat was homely. Although I couldn’t think of it as beautiful – it was too blunt and squat for that, and the paint was flaking badly in places – it fitted
into the surroundings very naturally, snugly negotiating the space connecting land and water. Another white metal rail, which appeared to be newly painted, since it was much brighter than its
yellowing counterpart at the upper level, stretched around the entrance deck, with a gap where the gangplank was attached. The gangplank was set at a right-angle, a short stretch out over the
water, then a longer section leading off to the left on to the boat, creating an L shape. There was a single metal chimney protruding from the roof.
    ‘Not exactly the
QE2
, is it?’ said Ray.
    He finally killed the engine, exited the car and stretched, with a yawn that I think was meant to convey to me how unimpressed he was by his brother’s strange choice of lodgings. He looked
uneasily around him, and then spoke briskly, as if he wanted to get my transplantation over and done with as quickly as possible.
    ‘Here we are. Get your things.’
    I didn’t move, and continued to take in the scene. Along the patch of dried grass that ran in a wide rectangular strip abutting the mooring were scattered an array of objects – a
rusted metal barbecue, a rattan chair, a few beanbags partly protected by a plastic cover on stilts, and a large rubber mat. There was what appeared to be a generator, which was a relief – I
had been concerned that there might not be any electricity.
    A few paperbacks were baking on the ground. One had the intriguing title of
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
, and there was another larger book, about the area of an LP cover, called
An Index of Possibilities.
It seemed to be some kind of popular-science book. There were the remains of a log fire, which was faintly smouldering, and an empty packet of Smith’s
cheese and onion crisps. I could smell ashes and grass cuttings and, perhaps, the river, slightly rotten and fresh at the same time.
    Ray was at the boot, pulling out my steel suitcase, the sports holdall and my green shoulder bag.
    I hauled out my revision books and notes from