Papillon's Coconuts Carry Cars And Dreams
by Andrew Velzian
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: The end of (school) days.
_____________________________________________________________________
Sitting underneath the old lifeboat pier we watch as the ferry comes in to dock. Speed is reduced and reverse thrust applied in order to pivot the vessel around to line up the car ramp.
Tubes of displaced water run lazily between ancient stone jetties that make the seaweed dance and sway and the whelks sigh at another false tide.
Sunlight glistens on the water like oily fish. Young pupils from the navigation school yelp excitedly at their new found wave machine as trawlers plough back and forth between danger and home in a postcard scene that’s been seen a hundred times.
On the ferry happy expectant holiday faces line the rails.
The town sticks limpet-like to the shoreline beneath Brinkies Brae. A line of stone houses, normally so grey and bleak, touched by the sun they transform into a quaint vision of the past, complete with a mystic air and a holiday-time lens. Returning students scan those waiting on the pier for parents and friends, world-wise after three months in the halls of residence and the situational self-importance that it arouses.
After forcing down another mouthful of wine I pass the bottle back to Shaun. It tastes like it’s been open since Christmas, yet, to not drink it runs the risk of drowning in social oblivion. Regardless of who your mates are.
- How did your last exam go? – He asks, passing me my half of the roll-up.
- Didn’t really. Messed them all up now I reckon. – I spit to the side and study the thrashing water at the ship’s stern.
- You? –
- English was alright. Maths... so-so –
- All you need for college though. How’d you fair in French? –
- Pfft, like a bloody foreign language to be honest –
- Ha ha aye, me too. German speaking exam went down faster than the Fleet in Scapa Flow once I opened my mouth. –
I flick the cigarette end out onto the water, watching as it floats from one mini trough to another, like a fly caught on setting jelly.
I had messed my exams up for sure and the chances of getting off the island grew a lot slimmer than any crash diet could predict. Still, sitting under the pier at that time and at that moment, it wasn’t anger and disappointment that filled my thoughts but a lethargic contentment.
Passing the bottle back and forth we got the summer drunk that sixteen year olds do and cheered ourselves up with talk of music and girls, two of the most prominent topics in any teenage boy’s conversational repertoire. (But only after getting off the island in my case.)
We had two days left of study leave and felt the absence of friends who had completed their last exams and would not be returning to school. Their absence lay heavy on us as the fearful vastness of our future came another step closer. A great blank roll of wallpaper unravelling from our minds.
We decided that tomorrow we would try and get some better wine. Perhaps whiskey if we could steal some.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The end of (school) days.
_____________________________________________________________________
Sitting underneath the old lifeboat pier we watch as the ferry comes in to dock. Speed is reduced and reverse thrust applied in order to pivot the vessel around to line up the car ramp.
Tubes of displaced water run lazily between ancient stone jetties that make the seaweed dance and sway and the whelks sigh at another false tide.
Sunlight glistens on the water like oily fish. Young pupils from the navigation school yelp excitedly at their new found wave machine as trawlers plough back and forth between danger and home in a postcard scene that’s been seen a hundred times.
On the ferry happy expectant holiday faces line the rails.
The town sticks limpet-like to the shoreline beneath Brinkies Brae. A line of stone houses, normally so grey and bleak, touched by the sun they transform into a quaint vision of the past, complete with a mystic air and a holiday-time lens. Returning students scan those waiting on the pier for parents and friends, world-wise after three months in the halls of residence and the situational self-importance that it arouses.
After forcing down another mouthful of wine I pass the bottle back to Shaun. It tastes like it’s been open since Christmas, yet, to not drink it runs the risk of drowning in social oblivion. Regardless of who your mates are.
- How did your last exam go? – He asks, passing me my half of the roll-up.
- Didn’t really. Messed them all up now I reckon. – I spit to the side and study the thrashing water at the ship’s stern.
- You? –
- English was alright. Maths... so-so –
- All you need for college though. How’d you fair in French? –
- Pfft, like a bloody foreign language to be honest –
- Ha ha aye, me too. German speaking exam went down faster than the Fleet in Scapa Flow once I opened my mouth. –
I flick the cigarette end out onto the water, watching as it floats from one mini trough to another, like a fly caught on setting jelly.
I had messed my exams up for sure and the chances of getting off the island grew a lot slimmer than any crash diet could predict. Still, sitting under the pier at that time and at that moment, it wasn’t anger and disappointment that filled my thoughts but a lethargic contentment.
Passing the bottle back and forth we got the summer drunk that sixteen year olds do and cheered ourselves up with talk of music and girls, two of the most prominent topics in any teenage boy’s conversational repertoire. (But only after getting off the island in my case.)
We had two days left of study leave and felt the absence of friends who had completed their last exams and would not be returning to school. Their absence lay heavy on us as the fearful vastness of our future came another step closer. A great blank roll of wallpaper unravelling from our minds.
We decided that tomorrow we would try and get some better wine. Perhaps whiskey if we could steal some.
About the Author
Born in Dunfermline, raised on the Orkney Isles and now residing in Cheshire, Andrew Velzian says he scribbles a few stories in between working and sleeping.