A Punt Across the Thames
One of the best memories from my childhood was the first sighting of the punt each summer—resting low at its moorings, ready for another busy season ferrying day-trippers across the River Thames.
“Look, Mum!” I cried out the moment I saw it. “The punt’s back!”
Mum gazed at it with a mixture of fondness and faint disdain.
“Can we go on it?” my brother Tony asked eagerly. “Can we cross the river, huh?”
“Not today,” she replied.
“Why not?” he whined.
She shepherded us past the boat. “It’s too cold.”
“I’m not cold!” my sister Maria insisted.
“I’m hot!” Tony chimed.
“I’m very hot!” I added, resisting Mum’s attempts to steer us away.
“You’ll all have hot bottoms,” she threatened, “if you don’t stop moidering me about that boat!”
We stopped moidering. Hot bottoms and children do not go well together.
The following Sunday was glorious. The sun blazed, hot enough to split rocks.
“Can we go to the river today?” I asked, when Mum had finished drying the dishes.
“I don’t know,” she said, peering out the window. “It might rain…”
“Rain?” I said, aghast. “It’s not going to rain!”
“There’s a dark cloud out there,” she murmured.
I ran into the garden to investigate. “That’s not a cloud,” I laughed. “It’s Mr Slark burning his rubbish.”
“Don’t contradict your mother,” Dad warned from his seat in front of the TV. “If she says it’s a cloud, then it’s a cloud.”
Mum followed me outside and burst out laughing when she saw it. “You’re right, Gerrard. That’s no cloud. Come on—it’s the perfect day for a trip to the river. Tell your brother and sister we’re going for a picnic.”
Half an hour later, as we were about to leave, Dad looked up. “Where are you going?”
“To the river, for a picnic,” Mum said, lifting the packed bag. “Want to come?”
“Nah,” he replied. “Sure, it’s going to rain.”
“That was just a bonfire!”
But her words fell on deaf ears. Dad had already turned back to his beloved western on TV.
As Tony, Maria and I walked with Mum along the street, we had no idea how lonely she felt, having to bring us most places on her own. Dad wasn’t a bad man—he just worked hard all week and treasured quiet weekends filled with light gardening and even lighter television. Mum understood that, but she still felt a little abandoned.
“Mum!” I shouted. “I can see the river!”
“Where?” Maria asked.
“Behind that bus,” I pointed.
Tony said nothing—he was transfixed by the ice cream sign outside the corner shop.
“Can I have an ice cream?” he asked.
“Me too, please!” Maria followed.
“And me?” I begged.
A few minutes later, we emerged triumphantly: I licked my cone with gusto, Tony beamed over his choc ice, and Maria held the perfect orange split. Mum had a cone too. But it was so hot that we struggled to finish before our treats melted into sweet puddles at our feet.
Tony fared the worst—his choc ice ended up more on his hands and face than in his mouth.
“Mum!” he moaned.
Producing a handkerchief as if by magic, Mum cleaned him up. I often wondered how many hankies she carried and where she kept them. I never did find out.
At a T-junction, we paused for the traffic.
“Come on,” Mum said. “Across the road with you.”
We obeyed like toy soldiers. The moment we reached the other side, we cheered and bolted into the riverside park.
“You’ve got your hands full,” an old man on a bench puffed through his pipe.
“I certainly do,” Mum said, “but it’s worth it to see them happy.”
He patted the bench. “Sit for a minute.”
Mum hesitated, eyes flicking to us.
“They’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “No harm can come to them here. I’ve got excellent eyesight.”
Mum sat.
He puffed happily. “Not many men about, are there?”
“No,” Mum said, her thoughts flickering back to Dad.
“I blame that darn box,” the man muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Television,” he said. “I don’t own one. Got enough to keep me busy without a box telling me what to think.”
Mum laughed.
“Name’s Joe. Joe Bond.”
“As in James Bond?” she smiled.
“Everyone says that,” he chuckled. “Never seen the movie though. Any good?”
“I’ve heard it is.”
She turned to see Tony and me collide mid-game.
“Tough as nails, that age,” Joe said.
“Do you have children of your own?”
“Seven,” he replied proudly. “And twenty-three grandchildren.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Darn it—pipe’s gone out. Ah well, easily fixed.”
We soon tired of Cops and Robbers and sat by the river, watching boats glide over the water. Then we saw it—the punt. The blue hull glistened in the sun.
We ran back, breathless.
“Can we go on it, Mum?” I asked.
“Can we cross the river?” Tony chimed.
“Yes, please?” Maria added.
“Of course,” Mum said.
“Hurray for Mum!” we shouted. “Hurray for the punt!”
“Where is it?” Mum asked at the mooring jetty.
“It’s just gone over,” the ticket man said. “Be back soon.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Would you like to buy tickets?”
“Yes please. One and three halves return.”
Tony spotted the punt returning. “It’s coming back!” he shouted, jumping up and down.
The boat glided back, the punter pushing through the muddy riverbed with his long pole.
“Tickets, please,” said the conductor as we boarded.
Tony, Maria, and I jumped aboard, followed cautiously by Mum.
We laughed as she tiptoed around, trying to pick the safest seat.
“It’s not the Titanic,” Tony teased.
“Push us away, sir,” said the punter.
“You’re free of the jetty, Captain Scott,” the conductor replied.
“Captain Scott?” we gasped. “As in the explorer?”
“But he’s dead!” Tony whispered.
If the punter heard, he gave no sign.
I trailed my fingers in the cool water as we drifted. The day was perfect.
The punter walked the length of the boat, pushing us forward, then returned to repeat the process.
Beneath the surface, something moved—perhaps a fish. But before I could wonder more, the boat bumped the far jetty.
“Mind your step,” the punter warned.
I jumped off joyfully.
Mum hesitated, then stepped gingerly ashore.
“Come on, Mum,” Maria encouraged.
“You can do it,” Tony added.
“Think of the picnic,” I tempted.
She finally stepped off.
“Which way?” she asked.
“Left!” Maria called.
“Right!” Tony shouted louder.
“Gerrard?”
“Left, of course.”
“Left it is,” Mum said, and off we went—Maria and I delighted, Tony sulking behind.
We found a grassy spot, and Mum laid out a red-and-white tablecloth. From her bag came crisps, biscuits, squash, and shiny apples.
She fished out her Mills & Boon novel and lay back for a read.
“Don’t go too far,” she warned.
We heard her—but didn’t really listen. We were explorers, after all.
“Coming, Tony?” Maria asked.
He grumbled, “It’s not fair. We always go this way.”
“That’s not true,” Maria replied. “Last time we went your way.”
“I don’t remember that.”
I knew he did—but said nothing to avoid more sulking.
“All right,” he relented. “But I want to see the canal—and the weir.”
We agreed—anything for peace.
Maria was eleven, I was nine, and Tony seven. These were simpler times—before health and safety ruled every step. And despite all our exploring, we never came to harm.
We were Captain Scott crossing the Arctic, pirates in the Caribbean, and mutineers on the Bounty. Tony saw the weir, Maria collected shells, and I found a genuine fossil. It was brilliant.
As the sun dipped low, Maria said, “Time to go find Mum.”
“That means another ride on the punt!” Tony and I cheered. Life had never been better.
“Mum!” we cried, returning.
“There you are, my darlings.” She hugged us tightly.
“We saw the canal and the weir,” Tony beamed.
“Look at my shells,” said Maria.
Mum peered into the bucket. “They’re a bit whiffy.”
“I’ll rinse them again,” Maria offered.
“Later, when we’re home,” Mum said. “Help me pack up.”
Tony and Maria helped. I just stood there.
“What’s wrong, Gerrard?” Mum asked.
“You never asked what I found.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What did you find?”
“This.”
She took the object gently. “That’s beautiful! What is it?”
“A fossil.”
“It must be thousands of years old!”
“Millions,” I said proudly. “At least sixty-five million.”
Mum glanced at her watch. “Come on, we’ve a punt to catch.”
We boarded the final trip of the day. It was packed. I gave up my seat to a woman and sat on the sloped bow.
The punter gave me a look, but said nothing.
Halfway across, my leg cramped. I stood up to ease it.
“What are you doing?” the punter asked.
Before I could answer, a speedboat whooshed by, its wave slamming into our punt.
I lost my balance and fell into the river.
“Stop the boat!” Mum screamed. “Gerrard’s fallen in!”
The punter couldn’t follow me. He shouted to other boats to help.
One boat turned around and raced toward me.
I bobbed in the water, hearing Tony and Maria cheer. I tried to stay afloat.
A fish swam past.
A hand grabbed me—pulled me out. I was saved.
“There you are, missus,” the man said to Mum at the jetty. “Safe and sound.”
“Thank you,” Mum sobbed. “I thought I’d lost him.”
“He’s a tough one. It’ll take more than a dunking to finish him off.” And with that, he sped off.
Mum smacked the back of my head. “That’ll teach you to stand up in the punt!”
“Ow! That hurt!”
“It was meant to! I don’t know what your father will say, coming home in those wet clothes.”
But it was still warm. By the time we got home, I was dry.
Did Dad find out?
Mum told him nothing. Maria didn’t breathe a word. I certainly didn’t.
And Tony?
Well… for the rest of the summer, every time we visited the far side of the river—
we turned right.
THE END
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 