The Walker

Tom stood on his boat, hands on hips and angry. No cargo, no passengers and those two troopers had come and ransacked his home, while he’d been out. He bellowed for his cabin boy, George. Well, Tom thought, he wasn’t really a boy anymore, per se, but saying cabin man just felt, well, wrong.

George stooped as he came from below deck, stopping halfway up the steps that lead up.

“Sorry Tom,” he said, “I was cleaning out the mess those chickens made yesterday.”

Tom screwed his eyes up. Those damned birds hadn’t been worth the money they had brought him. Loud, smelly, messy and, and, the bloody cheek of it, the owner had demanded they stay in his personal quarters. Chickens! In the captain’s quarters! Not that he had any quarters to speak of, but still, unbelievable. He had been tempted by the owner’s money, which had, upon closer inspection, turned out to be fake.

Although it had been Tom who had taken the money, he naturally blamed George, as any good captain would.

“George, hurry up and finish cleanin’ that bloody hold, I want to be able to eat off of the floor!”

He’d heard words to that effect when he was in the army, but relating to toilet seats, which Tom considered too unsanitary for dining upon.

“What will you be eatin’ Tom?” George asked. He stood there, all seven foot of him, eye to eye with Tom who was standing on the deck above him, by the wheel.

“Why do you ask? Just scrub that chicken sh— chicken business off of my floor, for goodness sake!”

George frowned. “Well, since we have no money, you won’t be eating anything off of the floor or otherwise, unless you like eatin’ chicken shit. So, my reasoning being,” he reasoned, “there’s no real rush to clean it off, since, were I to clean it all up, you’d be unable to eat it, seeing as it’d all been cleaned up, and would therefore have nothing to eat off of the floor. See?”

Tom’s mouth worked through this, slowly turning each word over like a stone, mentally prepared to flinch from the insects that would invariably scuttle from underneath.

He wasn’t sure if George was winding him up or not. Sure, he sloped about the place, chuckling at mundane things, fart noises and funny shaped vegetables, but every now and then he would come out with a piece of thinking so sound that it made Tom stop and think. He recovered quickly, however,

“Look, George, clean the crap off the floor and I’ll buy you a pint later.”

George smiled, clearly forgetting his recent foray into financial logic. “Cor, thanks Tommo! Hey, I just thought of something. Chicken crap, it’s fowl-ness! Geddit?” He laughed heartily and made his way below decks, as Tom breathed, relieved. Order had been restored.

He looked about him. His ship, well... his boat, The Good Gel, was empty aside from himself, the steering wheel beside him, and George, below. The deck was narrow and long, perfect for carrying cargo that preferably didn’t move or defecate all over the place. She had been painted red once, a long time ago, but the sun had bleached her to a none too unpleasant pink, which Tom rather liked.

He walked to the rear of the ship, which was the stern when Tom remembered to be a captain and not a civilian, and slumped onto the engine. That had been another waste of money. She was bloody ancient, and therefore bloody expensive; powered by petrol, the real stuff, which was almost impossible to come by. It was a shame that veggie diesel wouldn’t work. If only he’d think things through more. He sighed and patted the metal beneath him.

The petrol situation meant that they relied solely on wind power, which wasn’t too bad; the natural wind tunnel of the valley sped them along nicely, but the engine would have sped them a bit more speedily, and even more nicely.

He picked his nose despondently. He could hear George singing away happily to himself below, his booming valleys voice vibrating the deck. Maybe he’d have to sell the old girl, he thought gloomily. It would be a shame, since she’s been in the family so long.

His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden shout from the shore. “You, on the boat. Looking for a fella named Tom, you know him?”

The man shouting was tall and wrapped in a dark brown cloak, travel stained and beaten. He wore an old hat and faded blue jeans. He was walking down the gangway towards him, with a young lady, also in faded work jeans, in tow. Tom lifted his cap and squinted. They were both wearing similar looking face gear, which he recognised.

“Not for peoples like you, I’m afraid.” He spat overboard, and continued, “Government types got their own travel. I’d hate to waste a journey, people here are desperate to get down the river.”

The man looked about him slowly, spreading his arms.

The sun gleaming dully from his visor as he spoke, “Lucky us. Looks like we just missed the lunchtime rush, Tom. But I’d hate for two foolish latecomers with paying business to interrupt your banquet in the hold.”

Tom opened his mouth to retort, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Before you ask, Tom, I could hear you long before I could see you. This your boat?” The man shook his head and climbed onto the ship. “Terrible.”

Tom’s jaw dropped. Who did this bloke think he was? Steppin’ on a man’s boat uninvited, only to insult him? The bloody cheek!

“George?” he yelled, finally remembering how to speak and reaching for his fish knife in his back pocket, “Get up ’ere! We got guests!”

He pointed at the man, still fumbling with the knife stuck on his belt loop, and was about to tell him ‘how much he was going to regret this’ when the man snatched forward and grabbed his finger, forced it back. All Tom managed was a heartfelt groan, before he was forced down to his knees.

George appeared from below, smiling amiably. “Hullo!” he grinned, seemingly oblivious to Tom’s plight, “I do like guests. I’ll pop the kettle on, shall I Tommo?” he disappeared again, whistling.

The man maintained his grip on Tom’s fingers, whose eyes had started to water.

“Right, listen. When I let go, you can stand up. You won’t reach for your knife, and you won’t do anything stupid. Right?”

Tom nodded; it felt like his finger would break off if the man pushed any harder. He blessedly let go and stepped back. Tom took his finger in his hand and looked up balefully.

“What you go and do that for eh?” he moaned, “Could’ve broke me finger orf!”

The girl, who had been standing quietly on the gangplank, hopped lightly onto the deck and chimed in, “You shouldn’t have gone for the knife. We only want to chat. Walker’s just a bit grumpy, on account of a bad sleep. You know how old men can be.”

The man, Walker, remained silent.

Tom struggled to his feet as George reappeared, chipped and cracked china tea cups clinking gently on a tray. “Here we go then,” he burbled. “Got tea in the pot downstairs if anyone needs more. Just ask.” He beamed around at everyone.

The girl turned to him. “Thanks. George wasn’t it?”

George nodded happily, setting the tray down onto an overturned shipping crate. “That’s right miss, good guess! And what’s your name?”

She smiled at him and retracted her visor. Tom saw her brown eyes, set above soft cheek bones and a curved jaw; below her thin lips sat a slightly proud chin. She would be quite pretty without the grime, he thought to himself.

“Daisy,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.” She held her hand out to George, who shook it heartily.

The girl turned to Tom, but Walker stepped between them. “Look,” he said gruffly, “We can pay you. We need to get down the Avon, without going through the toll roads.”

Tom glowered at him. “That would cost. What could you have that I want, Mister? You don’t look like a man of much affluence.”

He watched Walker look about, scanning the deck stroking his chin thoughtfully. Tom could hear the rough bristles scratching along his finger. His gaze came to rest on the engine.

“See you got yourself an old petrol model there, Tom,” he went on, “How do you keep her running?”

He looked back to Tom, who continued to scowl. “Can’t run it. Don’t take vegetable diesel. Last time we tried it just gurgled and did bugger all. So it’s nothing more than a bloody expensive waste o’ metal.”

Walker grinned at him and took a satchel from his shoulder. It looked heavy, like a sack of rubble. As he rummaged, the girl helped herself to a cup of tea, thanking George. Tom stood there with his arms folded, until the man turned, with a rectangle in his hand.

“Here we are,” he proclaimed, smiling winningly. “This book will teach you how to make the engine compatible with fuels made from vegetable oil.” He held it out to Tom, who didn’t take it.

“Can’t read.”

Walker’s smile dimmed noticeably, much to Tom’s secret pleasure; he wasn’t lying, he really couldn’t read.

“Unless it’s got pictures and that in, it’s worth diddly squat to me, chum. So unless you got—“

George interrupted, asking “Can I have a look please, Mister?”

The walker studied him, apparently noticing him for the first time. As George stepped up from the stairwell leading below decks, Tom noticed the man take a step back. Yeah, he thought, that’s right, your turn. But Walker simply smiled anew, and held the book out to George, who took it.

“Of course, who’d argue with a big Welsh fella like yourself?” he said.

George looked bashfully at the book, “Don’t worry mister, I wouldn’t hurt a fly really.”

He opened the book, mouth working as he tried to read. The bloody great idiot, Tom thought, you can’t read. If I can’t read you definitely can’t re—“

George looked over at him, as if he could hear his thoughts. “I can read this Tom. No problem really. Few big words here and there, might be a few made up, looks a bit home-made, see, but I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

The giant smiled again and wandered back down the stairs, mumbling to himself about converter plates and ignition switches.

Tom stared at George as the realisation that the prior superiority he had always assumed he held waved rude signs in his face and laughed at him. He was suddenly acutely aware that his claim to captaincy may not be so infallible.

He swallowed and licked his lips as the man known as Walker ambled pleasantly over and smiled down at him. First George can read, and now this lanky bastard is smiling down at me, he thought? Why was everyone so damn tall? He folded his arms grumpily.

“Now then, Tom. I think that should grant us passage aboard your ship for now, right? Plus,” and here he opened his cloak slightly, “You’ll have two armed guards, free”

“Ah!” Tom waggled a finger. “But I wouldn’t need guards if I wasn’t goin’ anywhere would I, you daft bastard! No chance,” He shook his head, “I’ll get that book back and you two can pis—“

Walker interrupted him by drawing a clinking pouch from his belt.

Tom eyed it as he bounced it in his hand. “I suppose I could take you along the river a ways.”

Walker offered him the bag, and Tom took it hurriedly, before he could change his mind. “Where exactly are you going then, mister?”

Walker continued to look down at him, grinning humourlessly. “I’m afraid,” he replied, “That we are going to the city.”