‘So did I,' said Jo.

‘Well, it is a sort of rigging,' Tom conceded, 'and my gaff is a boat, but I didn't mean it like that. Come and see.' He drained the last of his Pimm's, took Dora's glass out of her hand and put it down. Then he pulled her to her feet.

‘It looks like we're going,' she said apologetically to the company.

‘Have a nice time, lovey,' said Jo. 'I know Tom will get you home safely, if late.'

‘Oh, Jo! I promise not to be too late and wake you again.' Another reason to feel guilty flooded over her.

‘You'll have to come back and eat,' said Miranda. 'You might as well take advantage of the free food.'

‘You're not accusing me of being a ligger, are you?' said Tom indignantly.

‘Yes,' said Miranda calmly.

Dora decided not to ask what a ligger was, and followed Tom up the ladder and on to the dockside.

Chapter Five

Dora decided she liked Tom. He was very different from John, who was kind and gently funny, but not fun in the way that Tom was. And the joy of Tom was the fact that he was going travelling. In the unlikely event that something did develop between them, the relationship would have a natural end, which made it all the more exciting to be going somewhere with a boy she hadn't known since she was seventeen.

‘Give us your hand,' said Tom, and he hauled Dora up the last bit of ladder. 'It's a little way away, is that OK?'

‘Cool,' said Dora. She also liked being with Tom. She didn't feel quite so safe as she had with John, who had looked after her, but he was introducing her to new things and hadn't indicated that he wanted anything more than friendship. And that could easily be because there was no one else his age around.

‘There are some people off the other boats who'll probably come over.'

‘You mean, people who live on the moorings, like Jo?' Tom laughed. 'No, not like Jo. They're nice, but -well…' He hesitated. 'You'll see.’

It was quite a long walk to 'Tom's Gaff'. They went out of the dockside area, with the pub, corner shop and down a road leading to some trees.

‘There are some boats tied up on an island,' explained Tom. 'You can't get cars to it, and it's a bit unofficial, but we like it.'

‘How do you mean, unofficial?'

‘It means they could throw us all off with no notice, but it suits us. Not as handy for work as my official mooring with the boatyard, but worth a bit of inconvenience,' he added, perhaps sensing Dora's horror at the thought of such an insecure life.

‘I don't think I could cope with that,' she said, almost to herself.

‘You should get out more,' said Tom and Dora laughed. He was right, she should.

In spite of this resolution, she still felt nervous as he led her over a very rickety wooden bridge on to the island. It was covered with tall trees, so much so that there hardly seemed space for the slimy path that led round to the other side, where the boats were. However, it was still only late afternoon and nothing too dreadful could happen – she hoped.

‘It's a nature reserve really,' said Tom, 'which is why we're not supposed to be here, but we don't bother the birds.’

‘How do you know? Have you asked them?’

Tom nodded. 'Yeah. They were cool.’

Dora bit her lip. It wasn't good for Tom, or indeed any man, to think that their jokes worked all the time.

Tom's boat was not easy to get on to. It was a boat of the type Dora felt should have been made of plastic and floated among the bubble bath. It was small and wide for its length and was draped in old and faded tarpaulin. She regarded it dubiously.

‘Here,' said Tom, who had leapt aboard without her noticing how he did it. 'Put your foot on the gunwale. It's that bit there,' – he pointed to the side of the boat – 'and I'll pull you up.’

It took several ungainly efforts. Eventually Dora overcame the restrictions of her jeans and got her foot up high enough. Then Tom heaved her on to the boat in a jumble of arms and legs and a coil of rope that somehow got involved.

‘I'm not really designed for boats,' Dora said apolo getically once she'd reconnected with her limbs and got to her feet.

‘Nonsense, you just need time to adapt. And looser jeans.’

Dora brushed herself down. 'If I'd known I'd be doing acrobatics, I'd have worn my leotard.'

‘Oh, have you got one?'

‘Of course, red with spangles,' she said, thinking of Jo's top.

‘And doesn't it go up the cra- Well, never mind.’

Dora knew perfectly well what he had been going to say but was grateful that he didn't finish his sentence. He seemed aware that she was out of her comfort zone, and while he blatantly intended to stretch those boundaries, he had the sense not to move too fast and cause her to dig her heels in.

‘Come in,' he said now and lifted a hatch. The steps down were even steeper and narrower than they were on The Three Sisters. Dora dabbed at them with her foot, not knowing if she should turn it in or out.

‘Go backwards,' Tom suggested.

When Dora reached the bottom and turned round she saw that the boat seemed to have no furniture, built in or otherwise, and was nearly filled with a futon, several floor cushions and a sleeping bag. It was dingy and there was a distinct odour, a combination of unwashed sleeping bag, mildew and joss sticks. The part of Dora that was her mother inwardly recoiled.

‘It's – quite small,' said Dora, hoping her nose hadn't visibly wrinkled.

‘I'll open some portholes,' said Tom.'I keep them shut while I'm out because otherwise – oh, too late. I hope you like cats.’

A cat so large it had probably had people reporting sightings of it to the police or the newspapers as 'the Beast of Thames-side' oozed through the porthole and landed at Tom's feet with a thump. Then it opened its mouth and yowled.

‘Horrible animal!' said Tom, nevertheless stroking it affectionately behind the ears. 'Has no one fed you?'

‘I've never seen such a huge cat. Is it yours?' asked Dora, impressed.

‘It isn't anyone's. It lives off us all. Talk about liggers,' he added. 'He's a real scrounger. I think his original owner left but he stayed on.'

‘He probably liked living on a bird sanctuary.’

Tom laughed. 'To his credit, I've never seen him with a dead bird. And we all feed him, so what's his incentive to hunt?’

Dora shrugged. 'He's very handsome. What's his name?’

‘Fluffy, or the Surveyor.'

‘What?’

Tom shrugged. 'A surveyor was doing a survey on a boat once and the cat went down every gap and hole, whenever a plank was lifted, to check out conditions. Fluffy is far too kitsch a name for a cat like that, don't you think? Anyway, enough of this, would you like a drink?' Tom went to the bow of the boat where a two-burner gas stove and tiny sink indicated a galley area.

‘Mm. Something soft, please.'

‘I'll see what I've got.' He opened a cupboard beneath the sink and rummaged about while Dora stroked the Surveyor in self-defence. He seemed as greedy for affection as he was for food and she felt if she didn't stroke him hard, he might decide she was a tasty snack that Tom had brought home for him.

‘Sit down. There must be something here that isn't washing-up liquid,' muttered Tom.

‘Are you feeding me or the cat?' Dora overcame her squeamishness and subsided on to a cushion, more because of the limited headroom than anything else. She could only stand up right in the very middle of the boat. Tom had to hunch over even there.

The cat moved on to her knee, spilling over the edges of her lap and on to the cushion, and Dora was beginning to notice the smell less when there was a knock on the top of the boat. Tom was still rummaging in boxes.

‘Hello! Are you up for a visit? Or are you naked?' called a husky female voice with a Cockney accent.