"Whoop-whooop! Deedle-eedle-eedle-eedle!"
I knew almost immediately what that sound was and it was one I hadn't heard for at least a year. Climbing out of my boat I saw the red, cream and very lived-in liveaboard vessel of an old acquaintance from the first flush of Middle Level Bill activism. From a couple of hundred metres away S was holding something aloft, which I assumed to be a glass or a bottle of something strongly alcoholic as he slowed and drifted towards me. We were going to have a mardle. I love a mardle, but can count the times I have had real life chats with real life people during the eight or nine weeks of "lockdown"on the fingers of one hand. As for physical contact, that would be the goodbye hug and the kiss exchanged with P as he dropped me at the station on the day France shut down, 18th March 2020, two months and ten days ago. S drew level and immediately enquired after my stove. S was the man who introduced me to a retired welder friend of his own who repaired the mild steel back boiler that had rusted through during the time I was church sitting two or three years ago. In particular his welder mate had welded in a piece of stainless steel, which I am told requires more skill and knowledge than replacing like with like. The welder's wife came downstairs one morning recently to find her husband sitting in front of the television just as she'd left him the previous evening with one hand comfortably behind his head, stone dead.
Sadly, S has not seemed to be able to climb aboard a wagon, let alone stay on one, but as always he was cheery and effusive. I've heard he can sometimes turn aggressive, but I've never seen that side of him. What I know is he couldn't do enough to help me when I was in trouble. As we greeted each other what he was actually brandishing was a small black plant pot containing three four-inch high tomato plants. "Here," he said, handing me the pot. "Beefsteak tomatoes. you'll love 'em and they'll be huge." He mimed a spherical version of the fisherman's measurement. I took the pot and he grabbed my hand to give it a vigorous shake of greeting that turned into one of those mutual thumb-grabs that most of my musician and nomadic friends share to express that special layer of understanding. I fought off the urge to panic and withdraw, and the only thought that went through my mind with any coherence concerned the Prime Minister's boast of shaking everyone's hand shortly before he contracted covid-19. "Mustn't touch my face, mustn't touch my face," I repeated over and over in my head as we caught up each with the other's past year. I didn't even have time to collect my face mask that I've used for all conversations recently. He told me he had been trapped on the Great Ouse for months owing to the extensive Autumn flooding, the mild freeze, the weeks of very strong winds and then the covid lockdown and was only now able to move. I guess he must have been on the move for the past three or four days at least (mustn't touch my face). His boat is a similar length to mine, about fifty feet, but has a completely different layout. During the last times I'd been a guest the interior was fully "open plan" and he has a semi-traditional stern. This certainly gives him more space to move about on the back of his boat. He was also towing a GRP cruiser that had clearly seen better days. It may even have survived a great naval battle for all its apparent wear. We mardled for a while and just as the wind was carrying his boat on to the opposite bank, threatening to crush the cruiser that had jackknifed between the narrowboat and the bank we bade our farewells and he easily corrected the heading and set off up the river. If only I had as much confidence in my boat-handling skills. He waved and called until he rounded the bend, disappearing out of sight.
"Whoop-whooop! Deedle-eedle-eedle-eedle!"
Mustn't touch my face, I rushed indoors and with two large squirts of hand soap and to the tune of four Happy Birthdays rubbed and scrubbed any potential lethal virus to oblivion. By this time my moustache was so horribly itchy. Funny that I actually felt slightly less clean after the manic hand-washing ritual.
Farewell, my friend. Until next you pass this way.
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