One Perfect Summer

lighter than the wooden ones,’ he says. ‘But you get used to it,’ he assures me.
    ‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’ll be doing this again anytime soon.’
    ‘You never know. You might surprise yourself.’

 
    It turns out that Jessie was right.
    ‘Henry VIII founded Trinity College in 1546, generously endowing it with property seized from the monasteries.’
    My passengers murmur with interest.
    Yes, you read that right. My passengers . . .
    After that first time, never in a million years did I think I’d become good at punting, and never in a zillion years did I think I’d become skilled enough to actually work as a punter, yet here I am, with a tour boat full of people, punting down the Backs, regaling them with stories of the kings and queens who built these colleges and studied here.
    ‘When Prince Charles studied at Trinity he was treated like any other student, with the exception that he was allowed to have a telephone in his room. He was so annoyed at the no-car policy for all Cambridge students that one day he decided to bring his helicopter to college.’
    Several of my passengers chuckle with amusement. This story has been passed on from punter to punter and the last part is probably not even true, but it makes for a more entertaining tour.
    A familiar red-headed punter looms up ahead. I dig into the rocky bottom with determination and pick up my pace.
    ‘Afternoon,’ I say chirpily as my boat glides past.
    ‘Oi!’ he calls after me, his brow furrowed because I’ve overtaken him.
    ‘Taking a nap?’ I call over my shoulder.
    ‘Preparation for tonight. You up for a drink at the Anchor after work?’
    That’s one of the local pubs on the river we all hang out in.
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘Watch your head!’ he jokes as I duck under the bridge. I know this river like the back of my hand now. Sometimes I think I could punt blindfolded.
    It’s a sweltering afternoon and I breathe a sigh of relief as I glide up to the jetty with my last tour boat. A couple of tourists tip me generously as they disembark and I say a grateful thank you. That’ll buy the first round. I wipe my arm across my brow. If it’s this hot in May, I can’t imagine what next month will be like. I’ve tied my hair up into a bun, but I can feel perspiration at the nape of my neck. A sudden burst of cool wind gives me some relief, but it’s stifling again all too quickly. I’m glad I’m wearing a dress today: a white sundress. It’s kind of become my uniform. Jessie, on the other hand, still punts all in black, even in the heatwave.
    I step straight off the boat and walk up to the pub. Tables and chairs butt up against the ropes on the pavement overlooking the river. Jessie is already inside at the bar. He turns and flashes me a grin, before handing over what has now become my regular: a pint of lager. I never thought I’d be a lager girl, I can tell you that much.
    ‘Here you go, China.’
    ‘Cheers, Weasley.’
    Our nicknames have stuck. We chink glasses and each glug down a few mouthfuls. The bitter-tasting liquid hits the back of my throat and instantly cools me down from the inside out.
    ‘Pretty full-on day, hey?’ Jessie comments.
    ‘Just a bit.’
    ‘How many did you do?’ He’s referring to tours.
    ‘Five.’
    ‘Pansy,’ he teases.
    ‘Yeah, yeah, I know I still haven’t come close to touching your twelve, but I’m getting there.’
    He nudges me affectionately. ‘You don’t do half bad, considering you’re a little one.’
    A stool comes free at the bar. He passes it to me, then leans up against the wooden bar top. We always seem to find ourselves standing up here until our pals arrive, and then more often than not we relocate to a table – outside if we can find one.
    ‘Thanks,’ I say for the stool. I’m desperate to sit down. ‘How’s your student search coming along?’ I ask.
    Last year, Jessie’s parents left the UK to go abroad for two and a half years. His dad is a lawyer at a top firm and they wanted him to work in their Washington office for a while, so Jessie’s parents left him to look after the house with permission to rent out two of the bedrooms to students. It worked well, but as both students were third years he needs to find a couple of new ones for September.
    ‘Why don’t you move in?’ he asks casually, taking a sip of his lager and regarding me over the brim of his pint glass.
    ‘You’re serious? You wouldn’t want to live with me,’ I say