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Family Business
The boatman stares through million-pock-marked waters,tapping a cigarette, shying from the rainin mac and wellies, beneath a London planethat rustles and drips. He turns and tells his daughterto bolt the hut. Tonight the summer’s over.He heaves the skiff to the boatshed, ties the linesand double-locks the door. She fits a sign:CLOSED FOR SEESON. They load a battered Land Roverwith cash tin, radio, stools, as fast as they can,for it’s raining harder. Lightning blanks the dark,and then they’re away, the wiper thwacking its arc.She glances at this ordinary manthen shuts her eyes: she’s damp and tired and bored.He drives more gently. Neither says a word.