Boarding
by Matthew Richardson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A snooty driver. A passenger with a chip on his shoulder. An enforced car share aboard a lurching ferry. What can go wrong?
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A snooty driver. A passenger with a chip on his shoulder. An enforced car share aboard a lurching ferry. What can go wrong?
Further. Further. Further still. A tiny bit further. Stop.
The steward gives me a thumbs-up and moves onto the car behind, his features obscured by a balaclava and high-vis hood. He has good reason to be wrapped up; salt spray fizzes through the air and spatters over windscreens. In my rear-view mirror drivers tentatively toe-prod their vehicles onto a deck already lurching atop the Clyde.
The hikers, the bikers and those too cheap to take a car across make a run for the lounge. The wind whips them straight past the door until they stand, stalled and slanted on deck, trying to clamber their way inside. There is no such drama for me as I slip off my heels, warm in my X5 on the vehicle deck. I’ve seen worse crossings to Dunoon and seasickness has never bothered me. John Humphrys is chirruping away on the radio, I am first in line to disembark and my toddler is giving off tiny, gurgling snores on the back seat. Perfect.
We are halfway across when loudspeakers cut across the roar of the sea.
“ATTENTION PLEASE! THERE HAS BEEN AN INCIDENT WITHIN THE PASSENGER LOUNGE. WOULD THOSE WITHIN VEHICLES KINDLY ACCOMMODATE FOOT PASSENGERS FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE JOURNEY. THANKYOU.”
Out they come onto the car deck, one-by-one, hands up to shield their faces from the wind and weaving about like patrons spilling from a Govan pub at closing time.
I smile as drivers across the deck sink a couple of inches in their seats, desperate to avoid taking in a soggy refugee. The situation becomes considerably less funny when one staggers towards me. At his feet, barking at the storm, at the cars, at anything really, is an absolute monster of a dog – a staffy I think they’re called. Nothing if not resourceful, I turn around in my seat and pretend to minister to Dominic; a devoted mother tending her babe amidst a storm. My efforts are useless, however, as with a roar of wet wind my passenger door is thrown open.
My assailant seems to think it appropriate to inform me of the reason for his being there whilst holding the door open. Nodding him in as quickly as possible, I nevertheless have to wait as the slavering animal tenses his legs against the pull of the lead, stubbornly refusing to enter. Has that thing gone through quarantine? Am I going to be smuggling rabies across to Argyll? CJD? Bird Flu? Finally, filthy trainers and lion-sized paws are heaved into the foot well, immediately necessitating a full valet.
“Didnae ‘hink you’d seen me for a minute!” the man says breathlessly, his voice still geared to a winter squall rather than the inside of a car. “Fuckin’ awful out there!”
A mud-streaked waterproof jacket comes off; flung onto the dash with abandon. Throw in a vigorous full-body shake from the mangy dog and I’m considering bailing out water through the sunroof. Should I say something? Perhaps ask if he wouldn’t mind changing vehicles as I have a toddler in the back? Better not – he’s got a look about him that suggests he’s not used to being told what to do. Just ride it out.
“Visiting a mate over the water,” the man explains, giving the dog a knuckle to chew on. He nods at the heaving shoreline ahead. “Not looking promising though, eh? ‘Course it disnae help when some fuckin’ eejit floods the toilet on the ferry…”
I try to seem non-judgemental, all the time wondering why he had been so fast out of the lounge. Was his the offending arse? I look at the foot well again and wonder if the toilet is in a similar condition; lumps of viscous matter slowly making their way downwards, surfaces spattered and syrupy. He glances at the back seat, where my son sits sleeping. Do I say something if he tries to touch him? Ruffle his hair? The thought of those dirty fingernails scraping through Dominic’s hair turns my stomach.
“Sorry. Language,” he says in an exaggerated whisper no quieter than before. “Mind you, nothing he wilnae hear in the big wide world.”
The devil-dog has now seized the bottom of the man’s tracksuit and is growling through gritted teeth as it tugs. I am saved from contemplating the stubbornly distant shoreline by a knock on my window. It is the ticket inspector, a young boy swamped by his high-vis. Notwithstanding his doubtless soaking shoes and freezing hands, I envy the boy’s position on the other side of the window. I hand over my ticket and the attendant nods at Dominic sleeping in the back seat.
“Someone’s got the right idea!” he laughs before turning his attention to my passenger who is looking in the rear-view mirror and picking something out of the ghastly scrabble tiles that pass for his teeth. “Has your husband got his?”
Oh God. He thinks we’re a couple. Surely, surely even a boy of his tender years can see, can sense, that something isn’t right, that I couldn’t…wouldn’t be his wife. I keep quiet, sure that my refugee will do the decent thing, laugh, and explain that I am just helping him out. There is nothing though, just a ticket proffered in front of my face. He leans across me, bringing with him the smell of sweat and wet dog.
“Mate, while you’re here… what the fuck’s goin’ on indoors? I might not be driving an X5, but I’ve paid my money like everyone else, and the least I deserve is a flushing loo!”
The boy backs away from my pungent passenger, which is the course I would choose were I not pinned to my seat by him. He is saved replying by a panicked squeal from the back of the car.
The slavering dog has seized its chance and is enthusiastically removing the remainder of Dominic’s organic mash from his face, finger-long fangs gnashing within inches of his eyes. I variously attempt to reach into the back seat to rescue my son, to ensure the council-house bully that I mean no harm to his dog, and to assure the attendant that this thug is not actually my child’s father. I achieve none of these.
“You wait there!” says the dog’s owner to the poor assistant before throwing his upper body past me and into the back of the car where he scrambles around, grabbing equal handfuls of toddler and terrier. “Tyson! Tyson!! Get back here, ya wee rascal! TYSON!!! There, got you! Sorry about that, mate.”
The ticket collector, though, has taken his opportunity, making off into the rain and leaving me amidst a maelstrom of screaming and barking. The beast is now being counselled by his owner who is whispering into its tattered ears, presumably promises of what he’ll do to me should I try to touch him again. Amidst the muttering from the foot well there comes a grudging explanation.
“Wouldnae hurt a fly really…big softie…just excitable that’s all…”
Silence follows, punctuated now only by sobbing from the back seat. The wind seems to die a little outside as we approach Dunoon and I realised that my nails are drumming against the steering wheel. The man sets his jaw, ruffling and whispering away, but even his eyes are fixed on the dock. The baby is chewing his fingers between cries, presumably to avoid having to make conversation.
“I mean,” the man continues sullenly. “He should really be comfortable about dogs around his age, it was only a snuffle. A lot of dogs, if you shout and cry around them, it just excites them, y’see?”
I choke the wheel, my hands white, forearms tensed. He looks at me for a moment, starts to speak, and then stops.
“What about some choons?” he eventually asks, Shettleston accent not helping what I suppose is his conciliatory tone. I’m saying Shettleston but it could be any number of god-forsaken places. Govan? Easterhouse? Barrowfield? My reply is cut short. Stubby fingers with Silk-Cut-yellowed tips are already jabbing away at the radio. A twist of this knob and a jab at that button brings forth bass that seems to makes the car tyres vibrate on the deck.
“NOO HANG ON…” he says over the roar, fingering the volume again and inadvertently pushing it up once more. “I’LL FIX THIS!”
Heads in nearby cars turn towards us. Through the rain and the running windows they must see two adults grappling with the radio, hands slapping together like toddlers fighting. They must see, intermittently, foetid dog breath fugging up the car windows. They must see, plum-red and sweaty, a child’s face contorting with rage in the back seat.
A screech of steel on concrete and we have docked.
In a burst of righteous rage, I snap. Now it is my turn to lean across him, hooking the door handle and pushing it open with my fingertips. The cold spray from outside is a cheap price to pay to get rid of my charge. A look of confused hurt crosses the man’s face before he leaps out, studded dog lead pulled haughtily behind him. He makes his way to the front of my car, standing with the other foot passengers waiting to disembark. There he regales a crew member with his story. I can see the drama being replayed – the unreasonable, crying child; the slapping at the radio; the opening of the car door. All the while he is gesturing with the dog lead towards me, five feet away behind my windscreen. The steward, to his credit, looks supremely uninterested, at one point shrugging his shoulders to the man’s evident frustration. My accuser turns to look at me, dark promises circling his eyes.
He tries to put doubtless cold hands into his coat pockets. God only knows what’s in them. Slugs? Snails? Puppy dog tails? More likely half a kilo of cocaine. Come to think of it that’s probably what he was flushing down the toilet. Maybe he received a tip off that the Dunoon police are waiting to search the boat. If they’ve got sniffer dogs I’ll be in trouble-there’s probably a couple of pounds in the cracks of the seats along with the dog hair and ned grunge.
Looking around, I see that the rest of the crew are busying themselves making sure that the gangway is secure. I don’t want to waste any time getting away. The guy is probably carrying a knife, for God’s sake. I turn on the ignition and tickle the accelerator gently, bringing it to the biting point. My sweaty hand grasps the handbrake.
Finally, the foot passengers are told to disembark. They do. All except him. The dog is refusing to budge again, and my erstwhile passenger is trying to drag it onto the gangway. I look at the stewards. As soon as they give the signal I am off. The handbrake comes down.
Again I ease on the pedal.
Further.
Further.
Further still.
A tiny bit further.
I am two feet away from him. Eyes fixed determinedly on the Dunoon skyline; I rise and fall on the swell.
“WILL DRIVERS PLEASE REMAIN STATIONARY WHILST FOOT PASSENGERS DISEMARK”.
The announcement booms from the boat’s loudspeakers. A cry issues from my back seat. I turn to tend to my son. My foot slips. The dog leaps forwards in fright. I feel a muffled thump.
We stand still for a moment, separated by rain on glass. He blinks away what I think is rainwater from his eyes as he looks underneath the front of my car. Slowly he rises, large in my windscreen, dog lead limp in his hand. I reach for the door locks.
The steward gives me a thumbs-up and moves onto the car behind, his features obscured by a balaclava and high-vis hood. He has good reason to be wrapped up; salt spray fizzes through the air and spatters over windscreens. In my rear-view mirror drivers tentatively toe-prod their vehicles onto a deck already lurching atop the Clyde.
The hikers, the bikers and those too cheap to take a car across make a run for the lounge. The wind whips them straight past the door until they stand, stalled and slanted on deck, trying to clamber their way inside. There is no such drama for me as I slip off my heels, warm in my X5 on the vehicle deck. I’ve seen worse crossings to Dunoon and seasickness has never bothered me. John Humphrys is chirruping away on the radio, I am first in line to disembark and my toddler is giving off tiny, gurgling snores on the back seat. Perfect.
We are halfway across when loudspeakers cut across the roar of the sea.
“ATTENTION PLEASE! THERE HAS BEEN AN INCIDENT WITHIN THE PASSENGER LOUNGE. WOULD THOSE WITHIN VEHICLES KINDLY ACCOMMODATE FOOT PASSENGERS FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE JOURNEY. THANKYOU.”
Out they come onto the car deck, one-by-one, hands up to shield their faces from the wind and weaving about like patrons spilling from a Govan pub at closing time.
I smile as drivers across the deck sink a couple of inches in their seats, desperate to avoid taking in a soggy refugee. The situation becomes considerably less funny when one staggers towards me. At his feet, barking at the storm, at the cars, at anything really, is an absolute monster of a dog – a staffy I think they’re called. Nothing if not resourceful, I turn around in my seat and pretend to minister to Dominic; a devoted mother tending her babe amidst a storm. My efforts are useless, however, as with a roar of wet wind my passenger door is thrown open.
My assailant seems to think it appropriate to inform me of the reason for his being there whilst holding the door open. Nodding him in as quickly as possible, I nevertheless have to wait as the slavering animal tenses his legs against the pull of the lead, stubbornly refusing to enter. Has that thing gone through quarantine? Am I going to be smuggling rabies across to Argyll? CJD? Bird Flu? Finally, filthy trainers and lion-sized paws are heaved into the foot well, immediately necessitating a full valet.
“Didnae ‘hink you’d seen me for a minute!” the man says breathlessly, his voice still geared to a winter squall rather than the inside of a car. “Fuckin’ awful out there!”
A mud-streaked waterproof jacket comes off; flung onto the dash with abandon. Throw in a vigorous full-body shake from the mangy dog and I’m considering bailing out water through the sunroof. Should I say something? Perhaps ask if he wouldn’t mind changing vehicles as I have a toddler in the back? Better not – he’s got a look about him that suggests he’s not used to being told what to do. Just ride it out.
“Visiting a mate over the water,” the man explains, giving the dog a knuckle to chew on. He nods at the heaving shoreline ahead. “Not looking promising though, eh? ‘Course it disnae help when some fuckin’ eejit floods the toilet on the ferry…”
I try to seem non-judgemental, all the time wondering why he had been so fast out of the lounge. Was his the offending arse? I look at the foot well again and wonder if the toilet is in a similar condition; lumps of viscous matter slowly making their way downwards, surfaces spattered and syrupy. He glances at the back seat, where my son sits sleeping. Do I say something if he tries to touch him? Ruffle his hair? The thought of those dirty fingernails scraping through Dominic’s hair turns my stomach.
“Sorry. Language,” he says in an exaggerated whisper no quieter than before. “Mind you, nothing he wilnae hear in the big wide world.”
The devil-dog has now seized the bottom of the man’s tracksuit and is growling through gritted teeth as it tugs. I am saved from contemplating the stubbornly distant shoreline by a knock on my window. It is the ticket inspector, a young boy swamped by his high-vis. Notwithstanding his doubtless soaking shoes and freezing hands, I envy the boy’s position on the other side of the window. I hand over my ticket and the attendant nods at Dominic sleeping in the back seat.
“Someone’s got the right idea!” he laughs before turning his attention to my passenger who is looking in the rear-view mirror and picking something out of the ghastly scrabble tiles that pass for his teeth. “Has your husband got his?”
Oh God. He thinks we’re a couple. Surely, surely even a boy of his tender years can see, can sense, that something isn’t right, that I couldn’t…wouldn’t be his wife. I keep quiet, sure that my refugee will do the decent thing, laugh, and explain that I am just helping him out. There is nothing though, just a ticket proffered in front of my face. He leans across me, bringing with him the smell of sweat and wet dog.
“Mate, while you’re here… what the fuck’s goin’ on indoors? I might not be driving an X5, but I’ve paid my money like everyone else, and the least I deserve is a flushing loo!”
The boy backs away from my pungent passenger, which is the course I would choose were I not pinned to my seat by him. He is saved replying by a panicked squeal from the back of the car.
The slavering dog has seized its chance and is enthusiastically removing the remainder of Dominic’s organic mash from his face, finger-long fangs gnashing within inches of his eyes. I variously attempt to reach into the back seat to rescue my son, to ensure the council-house bully that I mean no harm to his dog, and to assure the attendant that this thug is not actually my child’s father. I achieve none of these.
“You wait there!” says the dog’s owner to the poor assistant before throwing his upper body past me and into the back of the car where he scrambles around, grabbing equal handfuls of toddler and terrier. “Tyson! Tyson!! Get back here, ya wee rascal! TYSON!!! There, got you! Sorry about that, mate.”
The ticket collector, though, has taken his opportunity, making off into the rain and leaving me amidst a maelstrom of screaming and barking. The beast is now being counselled by his owner who is whispering into its tattered ears, presumably promises of what he’ll do to me should I try to touch him again. Amidst the muttering from the foot well there comes a grudging explanation.
“Wouldnae hurt a fly really…big softie…just excitable that’s all…”
Silence follows, punctuated now only by sobbing from the back seat. The wind seems to die a little outside as we approach Dunoon and I realised that my nails are drumming against the steering wheel. The man sets his jaw, ruffling and whispering away, but even his eyes are fixed on the dock. The baby is chewing his fingers between cries, presumably to avoid having to make conversation.
“I mean,” the man continues sullenly. “He should really be comfortable about dogs around his age, it was only a snuffle. A lot of dogs, if you shout and cry around them, it just excites them, y’see?”
I choke the wheel, my hands white, forearms tensed. He looks at me for a moment, starts to speak, and then stops.
“What about some choons?” he eventually asks, Shettleston accent not helping what I suppose is his conciliatory tone. I’m saying Shettleston but it could be any number of god-forsaken places. Govan? Easterhouse? Barrowfield? My reply is cut short. Stubby fingers with Silk-Cut-yellowed tips are already jabbing away at the radio. A twist of this knob and a jab at that button brings forth bass that seems to makes the car tyres vibrate on the deck.
“NOO HANG ON…” he says over the roar, fingering the volume again and inadvertently pushing it up once more. “I’LL FIX THIS!”
Heads in nearby cars turn towards us. Through the rain and the running windows they must see two adults grappling with the radio, hands slapping together like toddlers fighting. They must see, intermittently, foetid dog breath fugging up the car windows. They must see, plum-red and sweaty, a child’s face contorting with rage in the back seat.
A screech of steel on concrete and we have docked.
In a burst of righteous rage, I snap. Now it is my turn to lean across him, hooking the door handle and pushing it open with my fingertips. The cold spray from outside is a cheap price to pay to get rid of my charge. A look of confused hurt crosses the man’s face before he leaps out, studded dog lead pulled haughtily behind him. He makes his way to the front of my car, standing with the other foot passengers waiting to disembark. There he regales a crew member with his story. I can see the drama being replayed – the unreasonable, crying child; the slapping at the radio; the opening of the car door. All the while he is gesturing with the dog lead towards me, five feet away behind my windscreen. The steward, to his credit, looks supremely uninterested, at one point shrugging his shoulders to the man’s evident frustration. My accuser turns to look at me, dark promises circling his eyes.
He tries to put doubtless cold hands into his coat pockets. God only knows what’s in them. Slugs? Snails? Puppy dog tails? More likely half a kilo of cocaine. Come to think of it that’s probably what he was flushing down the toilet. Maybe he received a tip off that the Dunoon police are waiting to search the boat. If they’ve got sniffer dogs I’ll be in trouble-there’s probably a couple of pounds in the cracks of the seats along with the dog hair and ned grunge.
Looking around, I see that the rest of the crew are busying themselves making sure that the gangway is secure. I don’t want to waste any time getting away. The guy is probably carrying a knife, for God’s sake. I turn on the ignition and tickle the accelerator gently, bringing it to the biting point. My sweaty hand grasps the handbrake.
Finally, the foot passengers are told to disembark. They do. All except him. The dog is refusing to budge again, and my erstwhile passenger is trying to drag it onto the gangway. I look at the stewards. As soon as they give the signal I am off. The handbrake comes down.
Again I ease on the pedal.
Further.
Further.
Further still.
A tiny bit further.
I am two feet away from him. Eyes fixed determinedly on the Dunoon skyline; I rise and fall on the swell.
“WILL DRIVERS PLEASE REMAIN STATIONARY WHILST FOOT PASSENGERS DISEMARK”.
The announcement booms from the boat’s loudspeakers. A cry issues from my back seat. I turn to tend to my son. My foot slips. The dog leaps forwards in fright. I feel a muffled thump.
We stand still for a moment, separated by rain on glass. He blinks away what I think is rainwater from his eyes as he looks underneath the front of my car. Slowly he rises, large in my windscreen, dog lead limp in his hand. I reach for the door locks.
About the Author
Matthew Richardson is a doctoral student and public-sector worker who lives in Stewarton, Scotland. A lucky husband and proud father, he has previously been published in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Near to the Knuckle, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, and Shooter. Matthew can be found at Twitter at @mjrichardso0. His blog is at www.matthewjrichardson.com