The Narrow Boat Diary; rain and Flounders

Crikey: where to begin? My last entry had the three of us in a state of near-perfect harmony; Beyonce fast asleep at the far end of the boat; Des, from the light showing under his cabin door, propped up in his bunk reading an old and very well-thumbed copy of 'What Hi-Fi' magazine that someone had left on board; and me sitting at the heart of the Kettleby Princess, her fold-out Formica-topped dining table, writing up the journal. Next day we were all three of us tested: we had weather, lots of it.

The rain came down in sheets; remorseless and surprisingly cold for June. Keen as everyone was to maintain the happy atmosphere all of us were taking our shared responsibilities seriously, with B getting better and better at steering the boat (tricky in high winds: 60' of narrow boat becomes 60' of uncontrollable timber and steel without keeping a close eye on the bow) and Des doing what he does best; endless pots of tea and funny stories. Your correspondent was on light chores on-board, heavy chores at the locks, Des having put his back out showing off at Foxton (no comment) and we were making good progress. I mention 'near-perfect'; one word hung over the Princess unspoken and affecting all three of us in different ways: Glastonbury.

At the outset Beyonce had promised Jay Z, Michael Eavis, the record company and of course her fans that, in spite of her commitment to our holiday (for which she, like myself and Des O'Connor CBE, had paid £450.00 plus share of food, and logs for the wood-burner) she would honour her contract and play the festival. After all, business is business and the girl has an album to promote; neither Des nor I would dream of standing in her way.

Well; that was then, this was now, and we were chugging through a sodden Warwickshire searching for a field big enough for Jay to land his wretched helicopter. We were soaking wet, running out of daylight and Des was, I could tell, fuming over having his last pot of Lapsang slighted by B, who was coming over all Sascha Fierce as she psyched herself up for her return to the real world: “Des? See this tea? S'cold” and with this she had given the lovely man the iciest of stares and proceeded to do the whole turning on her heels and walking away thing we'd seen the other day. Des and I shared a look; this was getting to be a habit; we needed to put a stop to it once and for all.

I walked the length of the boat; just as I was about to knock on her door and give her a piece of my mind I heard the unmistakable sound of crying coming from inside the cabin. Giving the gentlest of knocks I asked; "May I come in?" Silence; I knocked again; more sobbing; "Oh Fred, Fred, Fred!" she cried, the door still firmly closed "I am just so sorry. I just' gon'an' done it agin didn'ah? Me an' mah stoopid superstar temper. 'S jus’ I gotta prepare for some concert in a field to a bunch o'folk ah don'know, I love 'em mahnd, they mah fans and they what ah live for but, but ah’m havin’ so much Goddam fun out her widj’all I surely wish I didn’t have to go. An’ now I’m lashing out at Des, and you coming down here to make the peace, again” By now, the sobbing had turned to sniffles, accompanied by a low moan of anguish.

Well, what’s a chap to do? Tiresome though this pattern of behaviour was, it appeared to be sincere, and, I reminded myself, Beyonce was a lot further from home than either Des or me. “Des will understand I’m quite sure.” I said, silently shelving my ‘We’re not at home to Mrs Angry’ speech. “Perhaps, when you’ve had a chance to compose yourself you might like to come and play Flounders. It’s getting dark; we can moor here for the night. I’ll send Jay a message and he can pick you up in the morning; I’m sure he’ll understand” Silence.

Des, I could see, was hopping from one foot to the other in the galley desperate for news, his novelty ‘Strippergram’ pinny giving off tiny electrical flashes as it brushed against the Velour covered cushions he’d used to ‘make it more homely’ (Des’s phrase)(and yes: I worry too). I held a finger to my lips; patience Des, patience. Still the rain beat down, drumming on the roof, the decks, the canal, the field; one could even hear it splashing out a leathery rhythm on the herd of cows that stood watching from the bank at which we had come to rest. At last the cabin door opened; “An’ jus’ what” she said, those extraordinary and now red-rimmed eyes staring balefully into mine “in all hell are Flounders?” “What is Flounders, B; singular; it’s a game. You play it with dice. You have to match up bits of cardboard fish. Each bit of fish has a number and you have to throw the dice to get the number and when your number matches the bit of fish then you can use it to make more” I paused, “of your fish”.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an age. At last a grin began to spread from ear to fabulous ear. “You mean” she yelped “we get to roll dice! Bring it on!” Then we heard it; the unmistakable sound of a helicopter, thudding towards us with all the inevitability of the school bus, the school bus you prayed would break down in the village before yours because you hadn’t done your French homework. Whop whop whop whOP WHOP WHOP WHOP; it was directly above us and preparing to land, the cows bolting in all directions. I had had no time to send the message! Flounders would have to wait...