One Perfect Summer

gnat and is climbing all over the place.
    ‘If you could just keep his arms out of the water and inside the boat,’ I suggest at one point on the approach to Trinity Bridge. The bruise on my arm would pale in comparison to the bruise their son would get if he got sandwiched between two punts.
    ‘This is the Wren Library,’ I start to say before I’m swiftly interrupted.
    ‘Me and Daddy have willies, don’t we?’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ the little boy’s mother replies quietly, her face turning red as the ears of my other passengers prick up.
    ‘And you and baby Molly have got chinas.’
    China? Vagina? Jessie’s nickname for me? Everyone laughs, and then – BANG! – I crack my head on the underside of the bridge. I cry out in pain and instinctively clutch my hands to my head, accidentally letting go of my pole as we continue to drift. My passengers stare up at me, some in shock, some with smiles on their faces because they’ve witnessed my joker colleagues do this. But there’s no joking today. My head is throbbing like crazy.
    ‘ Are you alright? ’
    I recognise that voice. I look back at the people standing on the offending bridge and instantly spot the foreigner from earlier. A kind man on a self-hire punt comes to my aid and guides my boat towards the bank with help from his wife or girlfriend, who pushes the front end of the punt in with her oar. And then he’s there – the foreigner – holding down his hand to me and motioning for me to climb off the boat. I’m utterly mortified and I wave him away.
    ‘You should sit down,’ he insists. My passengers murmur their agreement.
    I notice yet another self-hire punter with a boat full of people attempting to retrieve my pole. I’m surrounded by concerned strangers and I’m so embarrassed I could die.
    ‘Come,’ he urges again, his hand still outstretched. I take it, not really knowing what else to do because I’m hemmed in without a pole, so I can hardly punt away from here. But I have feet. Maybe I could do a runner?
    ‘Sit down,’ a voice says firmly.
    I give in and collapse on the bank, while he studies my head.
    ‘You’re going to have quite a bump,’ he tells me.
    ‘To add to my bruise from earlier.’
    ‘How’s your arm?’ A small smile has formed on his lips.
    ‘Better than my head,’ I reply, and then I can’t help myself: ‘I could really do with a cold compress right about now.’
    ‘Are you making fun of me?’ he asks quietly.
    I immediately feel bad and turn to murmur an apology, but then I notice that the smile hasn’t left his lips. My eyes meet his, and, to my surprise, I feel my face heat up. His right eyebrow rises with amusement and I quickly get to my feet.
    ‘Whoa!’ He steadies me when I wobble.
    ‘I feel a little faint.’
    ‘Sit back down,’ he commands, then, to my passengers: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid the tour is over.’ A couple of people groan and the little boy whinges that he’s bored, but most of my passengers amiably accept their fate. The foreigner calls out to a young man crossing the bridge in the direction of Trinity. ‘Kevin! Can you take these people through the college?’
    Kevin hesitates, warily looking over at the scene, and then he nods abruptly and comes our way.
    ‘That should keep them happy,’ the foreigner says as an aside to me, stepping forward to help my now perky passengers off the boat. A free tour of Trinity – that wasn’t in the package.
    When they’ve been ushered up onto the bridge to join Kevin the foreigner turns back to me and nods at the self-hire punter who has been hemming me in.
    ‘We’ll moor it here for the time being.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ the man asks. ‘It says “no mooring”.’
    ‘I think the Fellows will accept that we have extenuating circumstances,’ the foreigner replies, climbing down the slope to secure the chain to the bank.
    How does he even know a phrase like ‘extenuating circumstances’? He clearly speaks fluent English. Perhaps he was brought up bilingual?
    ‘Where are you from?’ I ask, unable to contain my curiosity, because I can’t keep calling him the Foreigner forever.
    ‘Southern Germany,’ he replies over his shoulder. ‘Upper Bavaria.’
    I was right! Well, about the Germany part. I didn’t ask him to be specific.
    ‘Thank you,’ he says to the self-hire punter.
    ‘No problem,’ the man replies.
    The forei— I mean, German , turns around and comes back to join me. ‘How are you feeling?’ he