Berth Place

Milo winced as his punt crunched into its spot. He thanked his passengers – shouting it sarcastically after the teen who hadn’t followed his instructions and hopped out before Milo had had a chance to secure the boat. More quietly to the ones that disembarked with dignity. One woman in a yellow sundress (who appeared perfectly in control of her balance, even in kitten heels) rested her cool pale fingers in Milo’s palm a touch longer than was strictly necessary, purring her gratitude with an excessive amount of eye contact. There was always one.

He’d been hit on more times in the four months he had been employed as a chauffeur on the River Cam than he had the preceding two years at university.

As far as customers were concerned, he let them believe he was a Cambridge student if that was what they liked. He was actually home from studying accounting and finance at Chester for the holidays.

“Better sit that one in the middle,” whispered Luke as he strode past Milo, nodding at a woman who was licking the salt off her lips, crushing her empty chip bag like she was applauding her meal.

Luke was the one who’d shown Milo the ropes (and paddles, etc) when he’d first begun the job. Milo didn’t even have time to respond to his quip. He only had a quick turnaround to get the last party of the day on board. Then he would catch the bus home, stomach already growling at the thought of the homecooked food that awaited him.

Milo was checking the boat over for anything that had been left behind, having already accrued a guide book and two umbrellas that day, when a young woman stepped out from the shadow of Chip Woman and marched up to him.

“Um, hiiii,” she began.

“Be with you in one sec, I’m just–”

“Sure. Okay. Yah. So, the thing is I came here with my boyfriend, right? And we thought we were getting a private tour, you see?”

Milo glanced up from running a rag on the small puddle that had collected on the stern to see who he presumed was the boyfriend shuffling his feet and running his fingers through his subtly highlighted hair.

Milo took the ticket that was being waved at him.

“No, sorry,” said Milo. “That’s a ticket for two places in a group. Not a boat for two.”

The woman pouted. “Yeah, so, the thing is, my boyfriend booked it and he can’t help the fact he’s idiot – even though he is a cutie,” she paused to wiggle her fingers at Shuffle. “But I have 600k followers and I need exclusive content to wrap up my visit to Cambridge. What will my fans say if they see The Real Ella-Mae Daultry-Robinson squashed up against a group of nobodies! Um, no thank you.”

Milo glanced at the others waiting to climb on. He saw Chip fussing over a boy aged around six or seven years old, smearing ice-cream off his chin with a napkin.

“I’m afraid it’s too late to do anything about it now. Unless you’d like to come back tomorrow?”

“We leave tomorrow!” nearly screeched the Pout.

Milo stammered a half-arsed apology for the inconvenience. Meanwhile the small boy clambered onto the punt.

“Hey,” said Milo. “You have to wait while I get the boat ready again before you get on.”

“Excuse me,” said a lean, stubbled man in socks and Crocs. “I’m his father. My boy is disabled, just let him be.”

Milo, watching the boy scamper up and down the punt, figured it must be one of those hidden disabilities. He turned back to Pout, and found Shuffle had sidled over, although stood a respectful two feet behind his sweetheart.

Milo had been wearing his customer-facing mask of amiability since 8am. Which is probably why it nearly fell off when he clocked who the final passenger was.

The Writer.

Milo hastily refastened his mask before it slipped into the water. Water which The Writer probably described as “murky depths” when actually it was about five feet deep on the punting company’s stretch, and kept reasonably clear by the conservators.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Milo, as brightly as he could muster. His arms were aching as he summoned the strength to pick the paddle up again. “Second time this month isn’t it?”

“Third,” corrected the writer. “I’m nearing the end of my novel now. I just need a little sensory top up. Another hoisting of the mainsail.”

Milo began his welcoming spiel as they all set off down the river. He noticed a goth girl had slunk in, and wondered how many others had been lurking in the shadow of Chip Woman. He briefly entertained the idea that the goth might actually be a ghost, but that idea was shot down as Luke passed his party with his boatload. Luke’s eyes bulged when he clocked the chalk-white breasts (“bosom” – the Writer) that were being choked out of the goth’s corset.

Milo chattered as best he could at the end of a hard day of reiterating the same facts over and over, hoping the Writer wouldn’t catch him out. He had the last time, when Milo had stated the producers of the Harry Potter films wanted to film at one of the colleges that the tour passed, reminding him it was £50,000 per day the college had demanded, not £40,000.

Sometimes he just let the scenery do the talking. The many bridges, the students lazing on the grassy banks, butterflies flitting by.

“A duck!” shouted the boy.

And ducks, thought Milo. Thinking, not for the first time, if he were a duck he would find another place to hang around in.

“Want me to catch him for our tea?” asked Chip. Goth girl pulled a face. She looked like she lived on air and eyeliner.

The sound of the paddle cutting in and out of the water was interspersed with the scratching sounds of the Writer’s note-taking and the constant clicking of Pout’s phone camera. She handed it to Shuffle and demanded he take some shots of her. Milo started a rough tally of how many, but gave up around fifty.

The Mathematical Bridge marked the punting party’s turning point. The Goth girl looked up at it in wonder, possibly wanting to see a bat. Pout and Shuffle were busy going through the camera roll, already making edits. Chip Woman was looking a bit green around the gills and Milo hoped the turning of the boat wouldn’t cause any half-digested lunch to appear. Socks and Crocs was giving her sweating hand a reassuring squeeze, while the boy–

“LOOK!” the boy pointed, “DEAD SWAN!”

It had been hidden from view on the way up, but sure enough, there was a recently deceased swan stretched out on a sedge (“like poisoned icing on a cupcake” – the Writer).

“Cool,” remarked the Goth girl, half standing to get a better look.

“Eww,” said Pout and Shuffle in unison.

“SORRY YOU DIED, SWAN!” shouted the boy whose default volume seemed to rest on 11. He reached into his dinosaur backpack and tore off a bit of bread from his lunch leftovers. The party watched in amazement as he lobbed the hunk of bread, which landed squarely on the swan’s back.

“Great shot,” said the proud father. Mother, however, looked distraught. “Aren’t they protected? Will the Queen have us beheaded?”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine, and besides, the Queen is dead.”

“Oh yes. I keep forgetting.”

The Writer marvelled at the spectacle as it began shrinking into the distance while Milo stuttered apologies for what they had to witness, assuring them it wasn’t an everyday occurrence. He was sure the Writer would be getting some mileage out of the drama. Meanwhile, Milo moved on to Isaac Newton and Stephen Hawking, silently wondering to himself how they had spent their school holidays. He would bet that they had managed to stay away from social media, and possibly also managed to stay dry the majority of the day.

“And that’s all folks,” said Milo as he navigated the punt back to its resting place and the boy predictably bounced out first like a jack-in-the-box. He was followed by the Writer, who was pocketing his notebook and clearing his throat.

“And so, we all end up where we began,” he said to the assembled crew. “We arrived here, born ignorant, and only in the end do we have the knowledge to better equip and prepare us for the journey. Perhaps our dear feathered friend, Mr Swan, would confirm the same if only he could speak. RIP, broken-winged angel.”

Milo, literally at the end of his tether, told the Writer that his ticket was valid for 48 hours.

“It’s a special off-peak offer. You can do the same thing all over again tomorrow.”