One Perfect Summer

their raucous laughter travelling down the river towards me for ages afterwards.
    It’s only when their laughter dies that I realise I haven’t thought of Joe for the last twenty minutes. That’s a new record.

 
    I do return to the river at the same time the next day. The rain has held off, although the sky is grey and miserable and drizzle threatens.
    ‘You came!’ he shouts.
    ‘You have an empty boat!’ I shout back.
    ‘It’s a bit quiet,’ he says, holding out his hand to me.
    ‘Are you sure this is okay?’ I warily step aboard. ‘You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?’
    ‘Nah. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. As long as I’m back at the Magdalene Bridge station in time for my next tour in forty-five minutes, no one will give a monkey’s.’
    I sit down and look up at him. ‘Are you going to tell me your name today?’
    ‘Haven’t you come up with one?’
    I smile, feeling oddly relaxed with this flame-haired stranger. ‘I’m thinking . . . Ron.’
    ‘Ron?’
    ‘After Ron Weasley.’
    ‘Ron Weasley !’ he exclaims.
    ‘From Harry Potter .’
    ‘Yes, I know who Ron Weasley is,’ he snaps. ‘I assume you mean the actor who plays him?’
    I shrug. ‘I don’t know his name.’
    The first movie only came out last year.
    He looks disgruntled. ‘I think you’ll find it’s Rupert Grint. And he’s about twelve.’
    ‘Well, you look like an older and more jaded version, then. How he’ll look in ten years’ time.’
    ‘I’m nineteen!’
    ‘Seven years’ time, then.’
    He looks mortally offended and I can’t help but laugh. ‘You asked for it.’
    ‘Bollocks to that. My name is Jessie.’
    I giggle. ‘Too late. I’m sticking with Ron.’
    He rolls his eyes. ‘I suppose it’s preferable to Weasley.’
    My eyes widen with delight.
    He moans. ‘Oh, shit, now I’ve done it, haven’t I?’
    ‘Yes, you bloody well have. Weasley it is.’
    ‘Fuck.’
    We grin at each other.
    ‘So are you a Fresher?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What are you studying?’
    ‘English Lit.’
    ‘Like it?’
    ‘It’s not bad.’
    ‘That doesn’t sound too promising.’
    ‘No, I do like it . . .’ I try to convince him because I don’t want to explain about Joe.
    ‘Chuck it in and come punting instead,’ he suggests offhandedly.
    ‘Is it hard?’ I ask with curiosity, remembering the girl punter I saw a couple of days ago.
    ‘Dead easy once you get to grips with it.’
    ‘How did you learn?’
    ‘On one of the self-hire punts. Spent a few hours teaching myself.’ He hesitates. ‘Do you want to try it?’
    ‘Um . . .’ I’m weirdly tempted, but . . . ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    ‘What shoes are you wearing?’
    ‘Stilettos,’ I joke, lifting up my trainer-encased feet.
    He smiles. ‘Go on,’ he encourages me.
    I look around, contemplating his offer. There’s hardly anyone on the river today, so I won’t humiliate myself too much. ‘Okay,’ I agree before I can change my mind.
    ‘Swap,’ he says.
    I step up onto the wooden platform and he hands me the pole. It’s much heavier than I thought it would be. He steps down into the seat bay.
    ‘Wait!’ I say, panicked. ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’
    ‘Just drop the pole in and push the boat along,’ he says, collapsing onto the bench seat below me and stretching his legs out. ‘But let go if it gets stuck in the mud, otherwise you’ll fall in.’
    ‘Great,’ I mutter sarcastically.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, casually putting his hands behind his head. ‘All of the other first-timers get thrown in at the deep end,’ he adds.
    ‘I’m not sure I appreciate your choice of words,’ I say primly.
    ‘Okay,’ he concedes. ‘Stand sideways to the edge of the punt, looking forwards.’
    I do as he says.
    ‘Now, lift the pole clear of the water, keeping it alongside the boat, then let it slip through your hands until it hits the bottom. Push away.’
    Sounds easy enough . . . But, ARGH! The boat is heading towards the bank. ‘I can’t do this!’ I squeal.
    ‘Let the pole float up and use it as a rudder to correct your position,’ he advises calmly.
    I’m a nervous wreck as I try to do what he says. Slowly but surely the boat steers away from the bank.
    ‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘Now lift the pole clear of the water again and angle it slightly backwards.’
    ‘It’s heavy,’ I gasp as the water runs down the pole and up my arm, soaking my jumper.
    ‘The metal ones are