Alma
(a tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part
One
Scroll down for Part Twenty
(recently added)
Scroll down for Part Twenty
(recently added)
My given
name is Alma and, like all people, I came into existence as a result
of human activity. I am not human though, nor even, in the minds of
a lot of humans, am I alive at all. I am a little over twenty feet
in length, and about four feet across the middle. I am made from
tropical hardwood, and am older than any human being has so far
managed to live, unless of course you include Methuselah
in your list. I have spent time in the company of both
good and bad people, and been treated kindly and deplorably. It is
no great achievement of mine that I am still here, rather it has been
either the kindness of others or their desire to exploit me for
money. When you have been in existence since the spring of 1880 it
cannot be any surprise that you will encounter many types of people.
The family that originally gave me the name lived in a big house
near the river. They wanted to be seen on the water in as stylish a
manner as was possible and, to my luck, they specified that the
finest materials should be used in my creation. This simple act of
either ego or selflessness has been a major contributor in my
longevity and whatever the motive of this family, it is my decision
to be grateful for the choices they made.
I
remember the day I arrived well. As I sat in the water, all
pristine varnish, white cotton ropework and the best of brass
fittings that shone like gold. The family thought much of me, and
with Mother steering, and daughter set beside her on the large seat,
Father and son set about rowing me into mid river to be seen at my
best. A picnic had been packed into baskets ready for our stop at
one of the islands that sit here and there in the river. The day
was sunny, and I believe the daughter entered the event in her diary
as being one of the times that “A good time was had by all.” My
first trip had been successful and I had done my duty, which, as much
as it could, pleased me. On our return I found that my home was to
be a small boathouse at the end of the family garden. The place was
pleasant, though an easy one for my existence to be ignored or
overlooked. That summer however, I was a novelty, and several trips
were taken, each with its associated picnics, each entered dutifully
as good times had by all. The river then, where I was, was a pretty
quiet place, with the odd barge going past carrying a cargo through
the countryside. Most pleasure boats were similar to me. Small,
light in weight and out on the water in large numbers when the
weather was right.
©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part
Two
There
are, when you are basically part of a hedonistic existence, periods
of inactivity, such as the winter when my company was a member of
the household staff who made sure I was available should the need
arise, which, of course, it never did. These times are not as sad
as one might expect as the river, when it enters the time that
holidaymakers see as the off season has a new beauty to it. Frost
on the trees, the higher current, even the floods that are not
infrequent. Then comes the spring again and colourfully clad women
being rowed by dapper gents who sometimes have less than honourable
intentions. Such it was that one day the girl of the house, who had
blossomed as the years went by, was escorted on the river in an
unplanned trip, the purpose of which she was fully complicit in.
The afternoon was quiet in the early spring, a time that the season
had not got fully under way and the beau, though I would not call him
that, had rowed some way deciding that, under the shelter of some
willows that grew on an island backwater, it was time to claim what
he saw as his own. The fool had not thought that, in the early
spring, the soil would be, due to recent flooding, quite muddy, so
that an assignation beneath the trees on dry land was out of the
question. His decision to have his way whilst afloat was something
of a mistake too as both parties soon found out. Things went well
for them at first, but the movement caused the mooring line to
dislodge, and we slowly drifted together into the main river. The
realisation that the daughter of the house could now clearly see the
sky brought forth panic from both occupants and their further
movements were simply too much as I pitched sideways and landed two
partially clad, and no longer respectable, people into the cold water
of the river, nearly sinking myself in the process. Various
explanations were given, mainly that the clothing was impeding the
ability to swim, and these were only marginally accepted by the
family who banished the blaggard from the house, an arrangement that
was adhered to until the following summer when the couple eloped to
Gretna Green. My part in the sad affair was not really noted,
though for the rest of that summer, I was left to myself in the
boathouse.
After the
eloping of their daughter, the family lost all interest in the
property and it was sold, along with a lot of its contents, to
another family who were somewhat more progressive in their thinking.
They were not generally received well in the local community, their
money being rather too new for most people's tastes. Worse that
that, they made a show of having it, purchasing not one, but two
cars, and a steam launch. For the first of many times in my life, I
was redundant and, in order to make space for me, I was
unceremoniously lifted from the water and put at the back of one of
the large garden sheds. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Come
back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part
Three
It was a
peaceful existence for the next two years and, though I was
continually threatened with the indignity of being turned into a
quaint garden feature by being filled with soil and used as a flower
bed. Thankfully the gardener thought this was in hideously poor
taste, and deliberately never got around to doing the job until one
day he was ordered to, on pain of being sacked. I remember well
that he actually apologised to me for what he was about to do. I
was taken from my place at the back of the shed, polished up, and
paraded around the garden until the lady of the house deemed I was
suitably located. The gardener marked the spot and I was again put
back in the shed whilst a carpenter was contacted to build a suitable
cradle for me to sit in. The man was about to deliver the finished
work when two men called at the house to arrange the day of the
auction of both it, and all its contents due to the bankruptcy of the
owners. That was it! I was free of the horrible fate that I
thought was mine. Being filled with soil would have caused rot to
set in very quickly and I would have been ruined. A pleasant
feature in a forgotten garden that two years later would very likely
have seen me burned on a bonfire.
The day
of the auction came, and the steam launch attracted a lot of
interest, being bought by a wealthy couple who intended to take it by
train to the north as a pleasure boat on one of the lakes. I was
bought by a hirer of small boats a short way down the river. I felt
like I'd been sold into some kind of white slavery. Though I'd see
a lot more of the river, I knew that hired boats, let out by the hour
were, like me, bought cheaply and worked hard. Thankfully I was
still in pristine condition (albeit under a goodly layer of dust) and
commanded a slightly higher price than the less fortunate vessels.
All the time though, I could see my fate. Peeling varnish, scraped
woodwork, dulled brass. This was all coming my way. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Come
back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Four
There are
people who think boats have a soul, and those who see them as simple
assemblies of wood and metal. I have known several people who
choose to talk to me, one being the gardener of my second owner, who
was a kind person. Whatever your personal view is, I can say that
my time as a hire boat was not either without event or enjoyment.
It would be akin to living alone, or a sort of communal lifestyle.
I was not unhappy in the boathouse, or even in the shed, but I did
enjoy my days on the river in the company of others of my kind.
Here I was then, in a crowd, left out in the open to be propelled on
the river by whomsoever chose to do so.
One
occasion that I remember well was the time that an unfortunate person
fell into the river. She was clearly, by the way she was dressed,
the daughter of a farm worker and had been enjoying a pleasant stroll
along the far bank when, for whatever reason, she was pushed in, and
had hit her head on the way down. There she was, floating in the
water, and would have found her way to the weir and certain death,
had the lad that looks after the boats not spotted her. Summoning
two of the older men that worked in the workshop he suggested that I,
as the swiftest boat they had (most of their craft only having one
rowing position available) be used to rescue the poor unfortunate.
I moved faster on that day than I have ever done, and, with the lad
steering, the girl was pulled from the river and, coughing some
water, she was revived by the two men, and rowed back to safety.
Once unloaded, the elder of the two rowers set off to the local inn
to purchase a quantity of brandy, calling at his home to bring his
wife so that the girl could be looked after by someone of her own
sex. There was much fuss that I was not party to, but there were
two things that happened that were directly attributable to that
incident. The first was that the girl, Mary Williams, took
something of a shine to the younger of the two rowers, and he to her.
They were married within the year, and I was borrowed for a brief
holiday that they took on the river. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Come
back for the next episode.
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Five
The
owners of the boatyard were kind people, and the story of the rescue
of Mary had, when reported, resulted in an increase in business for
them. The second thing was that their rivalry with another yard
close by resulted in a challenge. As a swift craft, and with a
regatta upcoming, the arrangement was made to stage a race between
myself and the best that the other yard could offer. Wagers were
made and my obvious crew, the team that rescued Mary, were allowed
time to prepare both themselves and me for the big event. I was
carefully taken up the rollers and into the work shed, where I was
sandpapered, and re-varnished, with all my brass-work polished to its
original shine. By the time they'd finished with me, I probably
looked better than the day I was delivered to my first owners.
The
regatta course was a few miles up-river, and to protect my looks, and
freshly waxed underside, I was loaded onto a barge that was carrying
a cargo in that direction. My two oarsmen, the lad, and Mary were
each allowed to have train tickets, and a room at one of the better
inns so that they were ready for the big day. The owners of the
yard travelled up for the event, and promised to make sure Mary would
get a good and safe view of her husband of less than a year as he
helped propel me to what they felt was a certain victory. I
definitely felt the part, with all my brasswork shining in the sun,
new white cotton ropes, freshly varnished and waxed oars, and a neat
pennant embroidered by Mary on my bow. The craft fielded by our
rivals was newer and sleeker than me, having been paid for by someone
with a vested interest in winning the bet. This was not seen as
particularly sporting, and their newly drafted crew, two university
students, added to the feeling that we may, or very likely would,
lose. I remember my crew saying they would give their best, and
that the co-opting of people that didn't know which way up to hold a
spokeshave wasn't in the spirit of things. There we were though,
with a measured mile ahead of us, something of a sideshow, though due
to the rescue of poor Mary (who by all counts hadn't done too badly
from her encounter) we had attracted rather more interest that we
otherwise would have. ©
2017 Michael Nye
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back for the next episode.
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Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Six
Teamwork
can be a great thing however, and as we lined up at the start I did
wonder to what degree the opposition actually were a team. The boat
was certainly newer, and probably of a better design, though I would
never hold that against her. The crew, I felt maybe had decided
rather too firmly that the win was theirs, and all they had to do was
row quickly, like they had done in the single skulls. Their cox, or
steerer (We chose to call our lad the helmsman) was a petulant little
brat of indeterminate years chosen presumably for his lightness, and
certainly not for his personality. He had assumed the role of
captain, commander in chief, and admiral of the fleet. Had it not
been treason to do so I am sure he may have laid claim to the throne
as well. As silence fell before the starting pistol was fired, I
heard Mary's husband say that we'd “Row like buggery.” and for
the lad to do his best to keep us straight.
There
was a bang, and indeed they rowed as they said. I was moving at a
far greater pace than I had since the rescue of Mary, and was soon
even eclipsing that speed. The competitors got off quicker than us
due to their lighter weight, but the barking of contradictory orders
from the cox, who seemed to know absolutely nothing, soon began to
take its toll. Eventually one of the crew said something that I
would rather not repeat, and the cox fell silent. For our part, the
lad steering kept us straight, and had taken to tapping his foot to
keep the oarsmen in time. The sound, though scarcely audible, was
enough to keep everything going smoothly and, with pennant flying
from the short mast on the bow, we kept cutting though the water.
The problem was that the newer craft cut through it rather better
than we did and were again about half a length ahead of us. Our two
crewmen signalled to our helmsman that they had more in them, and he
responded by slowly increasing the pace of his foot tapping. I
could feel that they were giving everything to the task, and we
slowly started gaining. By comparison to our neat rowing, there was
quite a lot of splashing from the other crew, and they even clashed
their oars in an uncoordinated attempt to row quicker. Seeing this,
our helmsman again slowly increased his speed of tapping and, for the
first time we inched ahead with a few hundred yards left of the
course. Another clash of oars from our competitors saw clear water
between the boats, though only a couple of feet of it. On
realisation of this, the crew managed to get back into an even rhythm
and were gaining on us, albeit slowly.
When we
did cross the line, there was less than six inches of clear water
between myself and the competing craft, but we were ahead! We had
won, and our perspiring crew were greeted as the heroes they were by
the owners of the yard, and the organisers of the regatta. Mary, of
course had a far greater preference for one member of the crew, but
that was to be expected. Though no prizes, other than a trophy,
were given, much ale was paid for by the management, and Mary saw to
it that her husband had plenty to celebrate. Nine months later she
gave birth to a healthy baby boy whom they named Albert. It is said
there was an obvious royal connection to their choice but I like to
think about the similarity to my given name. The crew of our
competitors, so I understand, were not so sporting as to accept
defeat too magnanimously. They shook the hands of my crew briefly,
then left, being taken into police custody some time later after
their instigation of a pub brawl that started with them arguing
amongst themselves. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Seven
After the
regatta my status was somewhat changed. I was now not a mere hire
boat, though there is no shame in being one. As the winner of the
regatta race, one for which a re-match was arranged for the next
year, I was kept in the best of condition and only loaned to some of
the more discerning of people. I'm not exactly sure how the
discerning people were selected, but some of them weren't pleasant at
all and, had I the power to do so, I'd have happily pitched them into
the river. Good clothes and money are no substitute for kindness
and an empathy with the environment you are in, and, whilst some were
happy to paddle off to a backwater get drunk and paddle back, leaving
their bottles and litter behind, there were others who were content
to amble along the river, taking in the sights and sounds as they
presented themselves. One of these regulars was an artist. He
wasn't well dressed, but was known to the proprietors of the yard,
and they were happy to rent me to him. Every now and then he would
arrive with his paraphernalia, which was stowed neatly, and a model,
who was generally the same person, who would steer. He would arrive
early and return just before dusk, with sketches and completed works
that would eventually find themselves on sale in some of the local
shops that dealt with the ever growing tourist trade. His works
were not what some would call great art, but they were pleasing to
see. I featured in quite a few of them, one I remember involved the
appearance of me floating free in the water, with the model sat
sunning herself on the seat. Attempts had been made on getting the
scene correct on several occasions, but these were often marred by
wind or bad light. Then one day, after a period of rain which had
increased the flow of the river significantly, he toiled upstream to
one of the many islands. The weather had returned to calmness and
bright sun. Once on the island the model posed on my seat and I was
let out on a long line downstream. The lack of wind, and the
increased flow allowed me to stay in the place that the artist chose,
and with very small movements, the model was able to keep my position
as lined up by two canes that the artist had tapped into the ground
alongside him. The resultant work was one of his best, and was
eventually purchased by a family that lives some miles away and had
come to the area by rail for a holiday.
For the
following three years, I was rowed to successive victories in the
regatta after which the rival team rather lost interest, as did
members of the public. I again became a hired boat, and remained as
such for well over a decade by which time I looked much like the
others of the fleet. Weathered timber, broken fittings and dull
metalwork. It wasn't as bad a time as it seemed, as I enjoyed
sharing the pleasure of the river with each family or couple that
hired me. Several of them came back more than once in a holiday,
others hired me for short camping trips, each of which had its charm
and I have many fond memories of that period. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Eight
In a life
as long as mine it would be surprising if I went through it
unscathed. I had many scrapes, most of which were insignificant,
but two incidents stick in whatever you would call my mind. One
year, not long after I had been retired from the hiring business due
to ill repair, I was sitting on the slipway on the night when the
river rose to what seemed unprecedented levels. Given that I was on
land, I had not been secured, so, as soon as I floated free I was
taken by the swift current downstream for a good distance before
having the good fortune the become entangled in the branches of a a
very large weeping willow that was now partially submerged. The
waters stayed high for some time, but eventually subsided, allowing
the owners of the yard to return and assess any damage. The fact
that I was missing wasn't something that worried them due to my now
being nothing but a piece of clutter that was due to be scrapped
anyway. I'd languished hidden in the tree until the haymaking time
of the late summer the following year when I was discovered by a
courting couple. Their finding me did somewhat distract them from
the original purpose of their visit as both set about freeing me from
the entanglement of the foliage, after which I was loaded onto one of
the carts and taken back to the barn as something that may come in
useful at some time.
I lived
in the barn for over a decade, and saw the courting couple married
and running the farm before I was again discovered when one of the
new farm dogs, a border collie pup, went missing and somehow got
himself lodged in a nook near me. The summer was pleasant enough
and the father of the house who, having passed most of the business
on to his son, was looking for something interesting to do. In my
state of glorious dilapidation, he recognised the name. He had
placed a wager on me many years previously and won a handsome sum
when I won that first race. I was taken to an outbuilding that had
the room and over the space of two years the man set about reversing
any damage that had been done to me by hirers, the flood and a good
part of a year in a weeping willow. My planking was carefully
inspected, various pieces of brass removed for cleaning, and all the
varnish was scraped and sanded back to the original wood. By the
time he'd finished, I again looked as good as I ever had done. A
set of four oars were purchased second-hand from a local boatyard,
and it was time again for me to return to the water. The day was
beautiful and the labour of love that I appeared to be was given to
the courting couple (now married with two young children) to be taken
on what was regarded as a maiden voyage. Again a picnic was packed,
Mother steered, son and daughter sat either side of her whilst Father
and Grandfather propelled me at a decent pace upriver.
All felt
new, though I was in the summer of my fortieth year. Many boats
like me had gone, but plenty had survived, and we enjoyed the day
together. For myself, I liked being on the water again, I of course
enjoyed my being owned by people that cared and genuinely had a feel
for their surroundings. The family were pleasant people, easy going
by nature, and if it were possible I'd have smiled on that day. It
was good too to see some of my former stable-mates out on the water
being piloted with various degrees of ineptitude by their hirers. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Nine
During
the day I heard much talk of the awfulness that was “The War.”
I'd heard nothing of it before, having spent the time behind mounds
of hay bales and suchlike. Nobody saw fit to tell me of the four
years of madness that swept across humanity sending so many young men
to unnecessary death in the trenches. Why would they? After all I
am nothing more than a collection of pieces of wood held together by
glue and rivets. I still felt pangs of guilt that there was
absolutely nothing I could do to stop such a horrible waste of life
from happening. I was created for enjoyment of the river, and
nothing more. The scrollwork on my large back seat gives this away
clearly. I was never destined to be a work boat of any kind though
somehow I know that, as well as the lighters, barges and other craft,
far more fearful vessels have been constructed. They were armed
with guns and set to destroy life and each other in order to settle
disputes that people could not resolve amicably. It is always the
case, it seems, that others pay the price for the mistakes of those
that set themselves above, and see themselves fit to rule. As a
construction of planks I had existed for four decades, but those
planks were made from a tree that was over a century old. It was
taken from a tropical country, itself taken by the might of military
force. The wood was shipped across to a port in this country. It
was cut into planks and eventually part of that tree became me. As
a tree I could well have seen some of the atrocities that were
committed in the name of “Civilisation” that was no more than
empire building on a grand scale. As a tree, and a source of timber
I could well, no doubt, have been fashioned into a different kind of
craft and spent a different life to the one I have. I was built as
I was, I had no control over that and I have survived thus far as a
result of my own good fortune. Maybe at times I do have bouts of
gazing into my own non-existent belly button in search of reason, but
they seldom last long, and it was a bright day. The war had been
over for some time, and the music from the wind-up gramophone
brightened the afternoon as the picnic was set near to where I was
moored.
©
2017 Michael Nye
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Ten
The time
that I was now a part of was bright and hopeful. I think a lot of
people were of a mind to believe that they had seen the last of this
kind of bloodshed, and came to regard the conflict as being a war to
end all wars. Given that I am made of timber which sees so many
things happening the residue of which exists in the growth rings of
the tree, I maybe had a different perspective on the situation though
nobody has asked my opinion, which of course I don't have because I
am a twenty foot long skiff. Moods changed though, and there was
talk of trouble ahead. I'd heard snippets that it would again all
be over very quickly. I think Christmas was suggested for the
previous four year conflict. The next turmoil lasted a deal longer
and, with the seemingly unstoppable motion of progress, better
machines had been invented that could destroy more efficiently and at
a longer range. I returned to the back of the barn where I
languished for another five years or more. This time though, I was
far more aware of the troubles that touched everybody. Aeroplanes
flew over the barn from the nearby airfield. Others flew towards it
in a vain attempt to destroy it. Madness seemed to be everywhere.
One
night, I remember a crashing sound, as though a tree had fallen onto
the barn that housed me. Then there was flame, not of the sort
caused by a discarded cigarette that starts slowly. This began
straight after the crash and was violent in its appearance and rapid
in its spread. We were lucky to have an irrigation pump and it was
this that saved the day. A pipe was dropped into the river, and the
pump set into motion. The usual slow plod of the single cylinder
petrol motor was pushed to a violent knocking sound as the last bit
of power was pulled from it. The pertol tanks of the farmer's car
and the farm tractor were siphoned to keep the pump working.
Eventually a fire appliance arrived and took the job over,
extinguishing the flames that the people at the farm had successfully
contained. The barn was badly damaged, but could be saved, and over
the weeks, much scrap material was dragged from storage to make good
the structure so that it would be ready for the harvest. It was
during this time, not long after one of the major air battles, that I
was found at the back of the building. I was dusted off, and the
idea came to show the enemy that our spirit was not broken. I was
put into the water, and rowed downstream for a picnic. The fare was
more meagre than before, but it was a good day all the same, or it
would have been had just one enemy aircraft not seen us on the move.
With us being in mid river, on our return, the air raid siren meant
that all we could do was to head for a clump of trees on an island
that was a few hundred yards away. The plane, either off course, or
damaged crossed the river at a lower height than it should. Low
enough for us to be clearly spotted, and spotted we were. After
having time to turn, he was back, and we were sitting ducks to a hail
of machine gun fire. We were also closing rapidly with the island
and a kind of refuge. His second run saw him come closer to target
and two bullets hit us. One took a chunk out of one of the oars,
but the other caught one of the oarsmen and also holed me just below
the waterline. We reached the island, and again I was let out on a
long leash, filled with a few items of spare clothing and I slowly
sank, spreading my contents on the water as the wounded oarsman was
attended. The airman, on his third pass, seemed satisfied that the
family had probably been shot and killed, either that or he was short
of fuel and didn't wish to land in the sea. Whatever, the all clear
was sounded, and I was slowly pulled back to the island where, after
about an hour, I was dragged ashore. The offending bullet had gone
straight through a plank, splintering it a bit and of course making
the hole that sank me. Three pairs of socks were sufficient to form
a suitable plug for me, and a torn petticoat made a temporary repair
for the poor oarsman. We both leaked a little but, with nobody
badly injured, a small cake tin was used to bail, and we all got back
to the relative safety of the farm, where I was stashed in the barn
for later repair. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part
Eleven
There I
stayed for another ten years, at which point the barn was cleared,
and I was sold to a local man who wanted to use me as a fishing boat.
I think the idea was that he was a would be poacher. The hole was
patched rather poorly, and I was painted black all over. I said he
was a would be poacher because he was caught on his first sortie. I
was left loosely tied at the side of the river and went unnoticed
when the man was apprehended. After a week I gently slipped my
mooring and, half full of water, I drifted slowly down the river and,
had I done this at night, would have broken up on one of the weirs.
It was a sunny day, and I was spotted by one of the workers at a
local yard who, with a new motor launch, towed me back to the place,
where I spent a few years as a hired boat. Instead of cleaning off
the black paint to reveal my my original name, which had been covered
by the poacher, I was called “River Maiden” and painted bright
yellow. I felt that I looked like a floating banana! The livery
didn't do much for my prestige, and I was hired to pretty much
anybody. After all I'd cost nothing so there was no real investment
to protect. Several couples managed to do what threw the daughter
of my original original owner into the river, after which I was
generally rowed in an erratic manner back to the yard, where I was
scraped along the concrete edging to the river as the “lovers”
disembarked. I managed to survive hitting almost all of the bridges
on the stretch of water that was my home, either as a result of
terminal ineptitude or drunken stupor on the part of those in charge
of me for whichever hour I was working.
Whilst
debilitating, hard use wasn't going to see an end to me, of that I
was determined, though at any time I could have been retired against
my will and broken up. No, the thing that has done the most damage,
is a plastic compound. Epoxy resin, and glass fibres could be made
into all sorts of shapes, including boat hulls! These started to
appear in small numbers in my middle years but have since blossomed
to be the standard for most people, apart that is on the canals where
steel is the favoured material. I have nothing against either
really, but the existence of a plastic hull that needed very little
maintenance was popular with anybody hiring boats. Much more so
when the prices started to drop. I continued life as a hire boat
though for some time, eventually losing my bright yellow livery to a
disgusting green that I can only imagine was bought as some kind of
job lot. Every surface at the yard, and all the boats were daubed
with the same offence to eyesight. I was hit on several more
bridges, other boats and sundry items, copulated upon and vomited in
until one day at the beginning of the season I was judged as just too
shabby when compared to the new fibreglass motor boats they had just
taken delivery of. ©
2017 Michael Nye
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Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part
Twelve
Another
period of dormancy in the yard shed followed after which, in a year
of great optimism for the nation, I was auctioned in a sale of sundry
items and bought by a lady who wanted me as a display stand for
potted plants in her garden which bordered the river. Humiliation
had finally come my way, I was a blasted pot stand and at the time
would far rather have been firewood. I spent what was possibly the
worst summer of my existence sitting on a couple of overly ornate
wrought iron cradles whilst being stuffed with prize geraniums, roses
and other crap (yes there were even garden gnomes!). I secretly
prayed for a flood to take me away from it all and sweep me over a
weir.
That
winter, it started raining, and it continued seemingly endlessly to
do so until the flood I had prayed for lifted me from my cradle and
took me, floating low in the water, still further down the river. I
may well have gone over a weir, though I think I'd have sustained
rather more major damage if I had have done. When the waters did
recede I found myself in a small area of waste ground where some
particularly rough looking youths looked like they were going to
finish me off for good and all. Whilst the devil may well make work
for idle hands, he obviously can't swim, and had stayed well clear of
this group who, deciding that finders were keepers, upended me and
tipped the debris of my time as a pot stand onto the land. After
this they picked me up to take me to a shed where they spent some
time, rather ineptly, restoring me. Green and yellow paint were
scraped and sanded, to be replaced by far too much of a kind of
varnish that I later learned was destined for the electronics
industry to impregnate mains transformers. It's slightly reddish
tinge of brown wasn't unpleasant and, when suitably refurbished I was
renamed “Water Scout V.” I have to say I became quite fond of
my rescuers and was willing to forgive any damage they did to me.
After all they knew no better, and were full to the brim with
enthusiasm. My original oars were now long gone, and there was some
debate as to how to obtain a set. A lot of time passed until one
day an ill matched pair of oars, that I'd have been ashamed to be
seen with in different times, arrived with one of the lads. They
had been found propping the roof of an allotment shed, and purchased
from their owner for a few shillings. Quite what props it up now is
something I often wonder about, and also something I'll probably
never know. I remember well though the day I was re-launched in my
new livery, and bearing the new name. The lads spent a lot of time
that summer, and the one after enjoying being out and about, with the
extra kudos of being boat owners. The local Boy Scouts had tried at
first to recruit them and, having failed, took to making complaints
and generally hindering them at every possible chance. Eventually
the police were called and, as ownership was not provable I was
confiscated and stored at the local police station until further
notice.
That
notice came when a new member of staff who had various stripes and
other insignia on his dress uniform, decided that I would make a good
little boat on which he could spend weekends fishing. I was
dispatched to another department where I was re-varnished (on top of
the transformer lacquer) with something that most of the station
woodwork was covered in. This gave my hull a rich dark colour that
was nothing like the original, but was deemed splendid by my new
owner. I say owner here rather loosely. That the lads had no real
claim to me is true, but had they not intervened I'd have been
cleared up with all the other debris from the flood and dumped.
This person had plucked me from storage after I had been taken from
people who I was fond of, and given a coat of varnish that, unlike
the transformer lacquer, was definitely not supposed to be used for a
private project. Now I was “Lady Jenny” a name I have always
hated. I was loaded with fishing tackle and, well, the guy was no
trawlerman. I can't remember him landing so much as a minnow in the
three summers he worked in the area, after which I was put back into
police storage until I was again auctioned with a pile of useless
junk. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part
Thirteen
Come back for the next episode.
It goes
without saying that I have never seen any of the output of any film
studio. Who, after all, would let a boat into a cinema even if it
did have tickets! As “Lady Jenny” though, my next stint of
activity was to be in the hands of a small film production company.
I have to say that I did quite enjoy that time, though as a prop, I
never really did much that was too distinguished. My first role was
for an advertisement for chocolate. This involved me being taken
off to a weed infested part of a disused canal that still had water
in it. The journey there was on an ill fitting trailer, with
several stops being made to make sure I hadn't dropped off the back.
Once we had arrived, I was surprised to find that the area they had
selected was pretty wide, more of a lake really. On one side there
were the hulks of two derelict narrowboats which the crew spent a
couple of hours covering with camouflage netting and various bits of
vegetation. I felt that it looked more like a salad than scenery
but who am I to comment. With everything set up I was pushed into
mid stream with a scantily clad Elizabeth Siddal lookalike who
proceeded to stuff her face with chocolate whilst they filmed her.
Given the time limitation she had been given a whole box of the stuff
that had been secreted under the seat so that she wouldn't have to be
dragged back between takes with the long and rather tatty rope that
secured me to the bank. Now I don't know much about the
Pre-Raphaelites, but they did favour the pale “English rose” as a
model of female beauty. My charge certainly had that look, but she
took a long time to satisfy the crew with their image of a mix of
desire for chocolate and mild eroticism. I think she had eaten most
of the box by the time the advert was “In the can” as these
people say. The original idea was that she should spit the mouthful
into the canal as each shot was completed, but this started to
attract ducks, so it was decided that she had to actually eat it.
By the final shot she had the colour that would have melted the
hearts of the whole Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. This was when
disaster struck. The line that was there to pull her in to the bank
snagged on an underwater obstruction. Worse than that, it broke
when pulled harder. Still worse, the only serviceable boat on the
scene was me. Miss Siddal's stand in may have looked the epitome of
purity, but she certainly possessed a foul mouth, and I will not
repeat what she called the film crew before she was rather violently
sick into the canal. After an hour, a small dinghy was borrowed,
and a rescue was carried out. Once back in the van the star of the
advert had some special words, mostly obscene, to say to the person
who forgot to bring a set of oars. ©
2017 Michael Nye
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Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Fourteen
My next
adventure in film was scarcely more distinguished. A manufacturer
that saw a business opportunity for high grade dog foods had decided
that they should do a double take on the ancient Egyptian worship of
cats. The film was to be split into two parts, and I was to be
decorated as a state barge. The first part was to have the barge
(me) with two cats sitting haughtily on the back seat as the dogs
appeared to row. The second scene was designed to have the dogs and
cats transposed. For the commercial much expense was spared. I
was decorated with some discontinued dado wallpaper that, though
ornate, was made (as its name implies) of paper. To add to the
ornate look parts of me were gilded with a substitute for gold leaf,
which was basically coloured aluminium foil. I have to admit that,
given their limited resources, the film company made a reasonable
job. I was set to be towed across a shallow pond by a length of
fishing line with the cats and dogs assuming their roles.
Now I
may only be a less than elaborate arrangement of wood and rivets, but
even I know that dogs and cats have never really hit it off as best
friends, so the first few takes saw an animal brawl being towed
across the shot. By take three, the cats had abandoned ship and
swam for it, leaving the dogs with little else but copulation for
their entertainment. The situation, becoming desperate, required
desperate measures so, in the spirit of the times all the animal
actors were fed on their favourite food, which had been generously
laced with something (that was not tobacco) that the film crew had
hoped to smoke after the job was done. The next three takes saw the
cats become ever more drowsy, ending up as no more than a pile of fur
on the seat, and even the dogs tiring of the slaking of their lust.
One did attempt to make advances to a rather stoned kitty, but was
met with drawn claws, which he accepted with as good a grace as he
could summon. Throughout the shooting, my decorations (which were
stuck on with wallpaper paste) had become ever more soggy and by the
end were forming a trail behind me as I was repeatedly dragged across
the wretched pond with my cargo of stoned fur and blubber. If I
possessed a voice I, by the end of proceedings, would have chosen to
use it to utter similar words to the starlet that appeared in the
chocolate advert.
I assume
that the film shot on that day made somewhat unsatisfactory viewing
as, the following weekend, I was taken back to the pond. In the
meantime the company, after salvaging what they could of the original
footage, had paid a visit to the local taxidermist and hired stuffed
animals of similar appearance as stand ins for some of the shots. I
doubt that they'd have done a quick job with some sage and onion and
the stoned mutts and kittys from the week before. To be truthful,
by that time I'd have gladly paid for the film crew to receive the
same treatment. The shooting went ahead and I was dragged across
the pond about twenty times before my state barge decorations turned
to papier-mache and fell off. It was a wrap, as they said, placing
me and my morbid cargo onto the trailer and heading off at rather too
high a speed through the lanes to get the stuffed props back to the
taxidermist to avoid paying another days rental. They'd learned
their lesson though, at least in part, so I was well secured to the
trailer and therefore in no danger of breaking free. The same could
not be said of my cargo of rather moth-eaten felines and canines who
spent the journey sloshing around on my bottom boards along with a
little bilgewater, and such parts of the wallpaper as could be
recovered. Eventually, on a bend with a rather deceptive layby that
was hidden by bushes, the inevitable happened and the mass of
deceased animal, straw, bilgewater and puréed wallpaper rolled
across the widest part of me, up the side, and out, disappearing over
the bushes, unseen by the film crew. On arrival at the taxidermist,
who was quite a large man with several tattoos, a sum of far more
than the animals were worth was paid to avoid any unpleasantness.
I've often wondered what the courting couple that I'd spotted thought
as, mid clinch, in their open top sports car, they were bombarded
with a hail of soggy, long dead stuffed animals. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Fifteen
After a
few more commercial shootings, the small film company were somewhat
strapped for cash, and accepted any money offered to them. Thus
came my minor claim to fame when an historical drama was being made
by a much larger company. I was to play the part of a rowing boat
that took some prospective courtiers across to meet their monarch.
The fact that I am the wrong kind of craft for this kind of work (my
design dating from two to three hundred years later) was overlooked
and I was rather roughly sanded and varnished so that I looked the
part. The scene was shot in two takes as I ferried two actresses,
dressed in all their finery, across the river, piloted by an extra
that was dressed in what they deemed a boatman of the time would be
wearing. That was it. I got a new coat of varnish and found out
later that, although the film was a disastrous flop, one of the two
women went on to a very distinguished career in cinema, winning
several awards along the way. Again I sometimes wonder if she ever
remembers her first role, being rowed across a river in the dusk, on
an old, mis-named, and historically inappropriate skiff.
Suffice
to say the film company that owned me went bankrupt soon afterwards
and I was again sold at auction along with another load of junk which
included several metal pontoon like craft that were to have been used
for a wartime drama that never happened. The lot was bought by a
company that were based on a small industrial estate, who has seen
the value of these ex bridging pontoons for the emergent
do-it-yourself canal enthusiasts who wanted to get afloat for as
little money as possible. These sold well, but nobody really wanted
a battered wooden skiff, and I had the embarrassment of being given
away for nothing with the last of the pontoons, so that the owner
could row across to an old wharf where he could work on his pride and
joy. With each trip, various pieces of woodwork were taken across
and assembled onto the pontoon in what looked like a random fashion,
though I dare say there must have been some logic to it all. As it
approached completion I could see that the reclaimed materials that
were being used only fitted in a certain way, like an anarchic jigsaw
of styles, resulting in an appearance that, though strange, was quite
pleasing. On completion, I wished the little craft well in her new
life, though I doubted I'd ever see her again and was towed back
across the river before the owner and his family set off on holiday
in their strange looking, and even more strangely named craft.
Having served my purpose I was sold via the small ads of a local
paper, after which I spent a few years at the bottom of a garden,
before being taken to a local boatyard where the family had decided I
should have work done on me. I was, however, pretty much abandoned
there, and sat on blocks alongside one of the sheds for a long time.
It wasn't unpleasant though, as the comings and goings of a boatyard
are interesting in their own right. ©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Sixteen
Come back for the next episode.
Part Seventeen
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Part Eighteen
One of my
clearest and fondest memories of the time was when a small girl took
a liking to me. Her parents often visited by water and whilst
liking the lifestyle the girl, as youngsters often do, wanted to
wander. Boatyards are far from safe places especially for small
children, whether or not they can swim, and it was one of the long
standing craftsmen that kept an eye on her as she explored.
Eventually she came across me sat neatly where I'd been left and,
after walking around several times, tried climbing aboard. This was
the cue for the man to intervene. He never spoke sharply, but
simply was there, asking her if she minded him lifting her aboard.
The smile he got as a reply needed no words and the young lady took
up her position on my ornate back seat to think her thoughts. Far
from being a one off, this was repeated many times over several
years. I watched her grow from the pre-school age of that first day
through to adulthood. I soon got the impression that this was a
deep thinker who lacked confidence to allow her true self to the
surface. There was nothing I could say (I'm made of wood and can't
therefore speak) but I was always happy to provide her with a seat to
sit and think upon and she seemed to accept my unspoken offer with
good grace. Often, whilst sitting, she would become absorbed in
drawing or working on watercolour sketches. This made me think back
to my early days when the daughter of the household would sit, before
the picnic was served, on the same seat and also draw.
So much
of my life is nuance, the spotting of the little things that people,
in their world of noisy communication, often miss completely. It's
sometimes wrong to compare things and people, but I find myself
unable not to. Back in my first years the sketches, though
competent, were no more than a pastime. She liked to draw but it
meant nothing to her and this came across to me in the movements she
made and time she spent working. One who is not totally absorbed in
what they are doing will fidget, they will be easily distracted, and
will not mind leaving a work at an unfinished stage, never to reach
completion. Several decades later, this new daughter with her
slightly timid nature, was vastly different. Timid she was, but
that hid a fire in her soul. There was passion about her, and she
would become so absorbed in what she was doing that time passed
without her noticing. She could work both calmly and frantically
but it was an unwise person that tried distracting her. There were
many days that her parents simply allowed her to complete the task
she'd set herself, no doubt causing the family to be late for
whatever they'd got planned next. They were understanding though
and, whilst not spoiling the girl, were happy to give her space to
work things out for herself.
©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
I said
earlier that I saw the girl grow until early adulthood, which is
true. Her visits became infrequent in these later years, and
eventually dwindled to the point that I thought I'd seen the last of
her. There followed a period of idleness for me which was broken by
what I saw as another tidying up session before I'd either be sold or
used for hire again. The decision had been made to take every coat
of paint and varnish off until bare wood was reached. Having paint,
varnish, and those wretched (and by now illegible) name boards
removed was not an unpleasant experience. With each layer I felt a
bit better, much like a sheep having the winter coat of wool removed.
These layers were like memories in some way, but they were also
baggage from the bad times and I was glad to see them gone. After a
week, there was nothing but the bare wood to be seen. I was naked
and every scar I had was on show. I waited as I was walked around
and gently prodded at, hearing muttering and seeing either frowns or
smiles as the very thorough inspection continued. The plank that
had been replaced where I'd been holed was in good condition and made
of very similar wood to the rest of me. Some of my metal work was
in a rather poor state but most was recoverable, and I began to look
forward to being my former self. Maybe I would be sold to someone
wealthy who would maintain me properly, but then the chance was that
I could just as easily find myself in the care of someone that didn't
care at all. The work continued though, and I began to feel better
and better. I was more than happy when my original name was
discovered, carved into the woodwork of my bows and stern in
beautiful sinuous lettering that had, when I was first built, been
picked out in real gold leaf. I was, as I have always been, Alma
and if it were possible for me to do so, I'd have smiled.
My
restoration took several months, being done whenever time permitted,
and seemed to be being carried out with such attention to detail that
surely no profit could be made when I was eventually sold. I began
to wonder what purpose this meticulous work served, other than to
occupy the restorers who were thoroughly enjoying themselves as they
sanded, varnished and generally spruced. I was happy that I was
going to look my best again after over a century of being in
existence.
©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
One
morning, as the newly applied gold leaf of my restored lettering
caught the sun, I was carefully lifted onto the back of a truck and
secured firmly, with much padding, before I was driven away from the
yard where I'd enjoyed many summers. Clearly I'd been sold, but to
whom I had no idea. The truck left the motorway and trundled
through the lanes after which I was carefully unloaded and placed in
a barn, where a ribbon was tied in a rather fetching bow across my
back seat. Two more were tied to the two sets of antique oars, that
were a very close match to the first ones I was paired with, and then
I was left to my own devices in the dark. What on earth was all
this fuss about? I hadn't the first clue, but I felt that it was
something of a major change in my life. Ever since that day in 1880
my general condition had worsened with each change of ownership.
Here I was though, in the dark, and looking as good as, if not better
than, that first day when I was put in the water.
The
following morning I knew something was afoot. Preparations for
something I knew nothing about had been ongoing for some time, but
the level of activity had increased to almost fever pitch. I still
hadn't a clue, until some hours later, when the barn doors were
opened and I was greeted by a face I knew well. The girl who used
to sit on the shabby and unloved me, the only person that properly
felt something for me, came in to the barn, dressed in white and
accompanied by a young man who, by then I'd worked out, was her
husband of a little over an hour. I was a wedding present, and she
seemed as pleased to see me as she was about her new status as a
married woman. I had experienced many things over my century on the
planet but in all that time nobody had ever kissed me. She was the
first and, so far, the only person to do so. For my part I was glad
to see that the little girl that had befriended me years previously
had found what looked to be her ideal partner. Both were radiantly
happy, though each also had that slight distance to their expression
that told me there were unresolved issues in their lives. I felt
sure that they were more than capable of supporting each other
though, and I would now be there to give them respite from the real
world on quiet afternoons when all they felt like was spending time
together on the water. It is, after all, my reason to exist. I am
a boat. ©
2017 Michael Nye
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Alma
Part Twenty
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Part Nineteen
My time
with these people has been interesting, and, some years back the
family grew, first with a son, and then a daughter. I gather there
were complications around the birth of the latter, but eventually all
came good, and the family took their first outing on the small river
with me. Whilst mother and baby were doing well, mother was a
little on the frail side, and I couldn't help but to worry about her
health even if these worries did prove to be unfounded. Some days
later she came and sat with me, her children busy being adored by
doting relatives and friends. She was only there for a quarter of
an hour or so but I could tell her mind was in a turmoil. It was
then that she spoke directly to me about her near death experience.
She had seen things she didn't understand, and people that she knew
but had never met. She was confused and worried that she should do
something, but neither knew what to do or how to do it. I'm a piece
of wood, and cannot speak, yet she asked my thoughts. After a
period of silence lasting some minutes she smiled.
“Thank
you,” she said as she got up to head back to the house.
I don't
really know what I had done, other than to be there, to warrant
gratitude but she'd made the decision to be bold and do something.
That I was sure of.
Some
time later the family had a guest. She was pleasant enough and she
seemed to make everyone else a lot happier too. Something told me
there was a connection between her and the one way conversation I'd
had, and that she was one of the people from the near death
experience. Quite where the connection lay, I do not know, but the
happiness of whatever kind of reunion it was seemed to have had a
permanent effect, and some of that far away look has gone, hopefully
permanently. If I was in any was influential in the decision to
find her then I am glad, as always, to have been of service.
©
2017 Michael Nye
Come back for the next episode.
Alma
(a
tale by Michael Nye)
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
Life can
always hold its surprises. Not, of course, that I am in any way
technically alive, but it is the best way that I can describe my
existence. I arrived in this world over a century ago, and have
experienced a lot of things. Then, I was built and maintained by
craftsmen, the object word here being men. It was men that cut the
trees, men that worked the wood, men that made and fitted the copper
rivets. Now I find that it is a female hand that maintains me. I
would say a woman but this person is no more than a girl. She has
the same determined look that her mother and grandmother possess,
plus a good part of the laid back temperament of her father and
grandfather. I am aware that she occasionally has bouts of
conscience and soul searching that her coming into the world almost
took her mother out of it. She'll always feel that, it can't be
helped, but she is also aware that the worst never happened. She
and her elder brother were born to two of the most caring people that
I have been in the care of.
Now
maybe, with my being older than any living human being, I can be a
bit set in my ways, and I have to admit that I thought it would be
the boy, rather than his younger sister, that would have been
interested in woodwork. With her delicate hands, and lightness of
touch though, his sister has the makings of one who will become a
master of her calling and I, for one, trust her with my very
existence at the level of skill she currently has. More than being
good with wood, she seems to understand the meaning of possessing a
soul whether the possessor is human, animal or, like myself, an
inanimate object. Can a piece of wood feel love? There's a
question for you. She cares for me, and I care for both her and the
rest of her family. I would hate to be the cause of injury to any
of them, and hope that I can present any flaws in my structure so
clearly that they would not put me into the water before repairs were
effected. I think on the balance, I would have to say that I do my
best to return the love shown to me, to be a positive part of the
lives that I am touching, and simply to be there when required, and
not demand attention when not. Is that love? I hope so.
©
2017 Michael Nye
