Free Pumping Up Napoleon by Maria Donovan Page B

view. Michael and the Commander marched down to the water’s edge, their feet flicking up pebbles.
    At the lip of the sea the beach dived under the water, which was, on that day, deep and clear from the very edge. Here they set the boat down and, while the Commander held onto the stern, Michael climbed in and took up the oars. Then the Commander stepped on board, pushing with his foot to set them going. ‘Easy today,’ said the Commander. ‘Hardly any swell and the tide’s just right. Just row straight out until I tell you to stop.’
    Michael rowed. The Commander rubbed his gnarled hands together. After a bit he said, ‘That’ll do. Don’t want to end up in France.’
    The Commander showed Michael how to bait his hook and cast his lines. They settled down to fish. Michael faced the shore; the Commander had his back to him. Again there was silence between them. Perhaps it was another hangover from the war, thought Michael, a case of ‘careless talk costs lives’. But that was nonsense, if you worked it out. Vanessa’s father would have been a boy still in 1945.
    â€˜I was shipwrecked on a desert island once,’ said the Commander. ‘For quite a long time actually. Very hot. A real desert island. Not much water. Best to keep your mouth closed when the sun’s up, conserves moisture.’
    Michael nodded, but then remembered the Commander couldn’t see him, and said, ‘Oh?’ But there was no reply.
    It was the Commander who reeled in the first three catches. Michael wanted to reel in his line too, but there had been no pull to suggest he had a bite. Long minutes passed and Michael wondered if he could bring up the subject of his intentions towards the Commander’s daughter. But he didn’t know how to begin. His fingers went numb but he did not like to blow on them. Why hadn’t he thought to wear gloves? Time stretched out and snapped back on him so that he actually jumped when the Commander spoke again.
    â€˜Getting a big chilly. Time to have a bit of a row, go out and check for prawns,’ said the Commander. He began to reel in his line.
    â€˜Prawns?’ said Michael, hastily following suit. ‘Fantastic. I love prawns.’
    â€˜These are good ones,’ said the Commander. ‘Big and juicy.’
    The Commander took over the rowing and brought them out to his marker. Then he hauled on a line that dipped under the surface of the sea. Michael looked over the side, as well as he could for fear of tipping the boat.
    â€˜Ah, here she comes,’ said the Commander. ‘Lend a hand. Take the oars and keep the boat steady.’
    Reaching out over the side with a gaff hook he drew something big and heavy through the water towards him. When it was up against the side of the boat he leaned out and began to gather large prawns and drop their living bodies into the bucket between his legs.
    â€˜This can be your contribution to the Harvest Supper,’ said the Commander. ‘If you’re staying until tomorrow?’
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ said Michael, ‘well, that’s very kind.’
    â€˜Good man,’ said the Commander. ‘Right then. I suppose to make it honest you ought to do some of the harvesting yourself.’ And he pushed the bucket over to Michael, who looked at the prawns in it – at their semi-opaque yellowish little bodies, their spindly black eyes like a tangle of old-fashioned pins, and their suckery little mouths.
    â€˜Here,’ said the Commander, pushing the big thing through the water in Michael’s direction.
    Michael looked over the side. Coming towards him was the bloated and partially decayed carcass of a once-black dog. The tails of the prawns still attached to it swayed in the currents round the boat.
    â€˜Wonderful,’ said the Commander. ‘Bounty of the ocean. You look a bit pale, Michael. Are you all right?’
    Michael felt the boat heave.
    â€˜Waste