Moss felt herself hauled through the waves until her head broke the surface in a splutter of foam. Arms were pulling her now, dragging her body until it cracked on the side of something solid. More heaving and she flopped on to her back against wooden planks, her lips spitting frothy vomit. Then the grey sky went white.
‘Sweet Harry’s scabs! That’s a wind cold enough to freeze off yer goosters.’
Words were buffeting Moss’s ears. Fuzzy at first. Then gradually more distinct as she came to her senses.
‘Take a punt up to Old Swan . . . no time for anything else now.’
From under the wisps of her lashes, Moss peeked out. A blurry shape was moving around her.
‘Ain’t nothin here worth havin.’
She felt hands patting her dress.
‘Stupid pisspot of a shore girl.’
She kept her eyes closed, peeping through her lashes until the blurry shape grew a face. Brown-eyed and smudged with dirt. Hands, going through her pockets. Scrawny arms and shoulders, clothed in a threadbare tunic. Hair dark and matted, as though a cat had chewed it up and spat it out.
It was a boy. And judging by the way he was cussing, he seemed very cross.
‘Should have known yer’d be good fer nothin but a boatful of sick.’
Slowly, Moss opened her eyes. The boy did not notice at first, but carried on sifting through her pockets. She blinked, then heaved herself up on one elbow and felt the ground wobble.
‘Stay on yer back, yer nubbin loach!’ He shot her a furious glance.
Still groggy, Moss looked around and saw she was sitting in a small flat boat, bobbing near the shore. A boat! On the river! How had she . . . how did she . . .?
‘Sweet Harry’s gammy leg! I said stay still !’ The boy gave her a push.
‘Ow!’
‘Idiot shore girl! You’ll have me boat over!’
He glared at her. She glared back.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep still.’ She looked about. The boat was a good way from the shore. ‘Could you tell me . . . what happened?’
‘You fell in the river, I pulled you out, you puked in me boat.’
‘Oh.’
The boy said nothing. He had his back to her now and was checking a net trailing in the water behind him.
‘Is this your own boat?’
The boy ignored her, still sifting through his net.
‘It must be nice to have a boat.’
Silence.
‘I mean, nice to be able to come out here. On the river.’ She was running out of things to say.
‘What are you talkin about, nice ? I rows to make me livin. Ain’t nothin nice about rowin the river.’
‘I just meant, you know, in your boat you can go wherever you like, see all the other boats, the sails, everything –’
‘What? Are you mad as a rabbit? It ain’t no pageant out here. Them big boats would squash you soon as look at you. Saw a waterman go down only last week. His boat was a four-seater. Crushed between a galley an’ a barge like a fly between yer thumbs.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you do now.’
The boy took up his oars and began to row towards the bank. Moss watched, surprised his scrawny arms could pull such deft, clean strokes. His clothes were little more than rags, and she saw that his tunic had been patched many times and that the patches were sackcloth. He really was filthy. She wondered at how a boy who worked on the river could be so dirty. Every bit of skin was grimed, as though he hadn’t been within two miles of a pail of water his whole life.
‘So . . . what’s your name?’ said Moss.
‘What you want that for?’
‘Well, to thank you, I suppose. You just saved my life?’
‘Fat lot of good that’s done me.’
‘Well, I didn’t ask you to save me. Look, I’m sorry I was sick in your boat . . . My name’s Moss.’
‘Sounds about right. Useless green stuff, soaks up water.’
A gust of wind rocked the little boat, biting into Moss’s body. Her woollen dress was sodden and grey water was pooling where she sat. Her teeth were rattling and before long, her legs and arms were shaking too.
‘Do you . . . do you . . . have . . . a blanket?’
‘You what? A blanket ? Who do you think I am? Some lordy merchant sailin a ship piled high with furs an’ silky pillows?’
‘It’s c-cold.’
‘So? Shouldn’t have gone swimmin then, should yer?’
‘I didn’t go swimming. I was walking. I fell –’ She gripped her feet with her frozen fingers. They were bare. ‘Where are my boots?’
‘What?’
‘My boots. I was wearing boots when I fell in.’
‘Don’t ask me. Probably at the bottom of the river stinkin out the fish, in’t they?’
The boy was on his feet now, punting the boat towards the bank with one oar. On the shore was a jumble of flimsy huts. Shacks made of driftwood and crates, propping each other up in the mud. They seemed so close to the water, thought Moss. Surely one rogue tide and they’d all be swept away?
‘Is this where you live?’ she said.
‘Who wants to know? Whoever it is, I ain’t tellin.’ The boy scowled. ‘Well, don’t just sit there like a nun givin thanks for her own farts. Hop off now, shore girl.’ He held the boat fast with the oar and Moss wobbled to the front.
‘Won’t you tell me your name?’
‘Out! Count yerself lucky I didn’t tip you back in!’
Moss jumped on to the shingle and the boy pushed off without a backwards glance.
As the little boat nudged into deeper water, he reached over the side and fished out something from the trailing net. Moss squinted at his catch. It didn’t look much like fish.
Then she gasped. Her boots! The little thief had stolen her boots!
‘Those are mine! Give them back!’ she yelled.
But the boy just grinned and carried on rowing up the river.
What kind of low life saves your skin then steals your boots?
Alone on the shore, Moss hugged her damp body tight. The ice-wind sliced through her. She had never been so cold. She tried rubbing her arms and legs, but her fingers felt as though they might snap. All she could think about was the fire in Pa’s forge. Heat. Warm and dry.