A Declaration of Independence

The next day started off warm. There was no wind, and the sea lapped the shingle like the waters of an inland lake. Fortunately, we'd found the boat still intact and moored where we'd left it. (It'd turned out to be full of water, though, and I'd had to bale it out). It was just as well, as we were running low on groceries and – just as I'd foreseen – I now had to row across the newly-formed channel to the mainland. It was hard work, forever having to fight the current which kept pushing me off my line, all the time cursing Toby. He was lucky I'm as strong as I am. When I got to the far side, predictably, I got my feet wet  getting out. I dragged the boat a few feet up the new shore-line,  close to where what had once been the track to the house now came to an abrupt end, and moored it to a fence post. I rang Bob's Taxis on my mobile. Bob himself came to pick me up. I got him to run me to the Co-op in town, where I paid him to wait – Toby might be a useless sod, but at least he has money and had given me a wad of twenties before I set out.

By the time I got back to the boat, the temperature had dropped and a wind had got up. Bob, gentleman that he is, helped me load the shopping into the stern, but it didn't stop me getting my feet wet again when I pushed off.

Crossing back, rowing as I had to against both the wind and the current, was even harder than the outward trip. When I finally made it across, the wind had dropped slightly but it had begun to drizzle. Thankfully, all the carrier bags held together until I got back to the house. I dumped all the frozen stuff in the chest freezer we kept in the outhouse (the burgers and sausages were beginning to go soft) and left the rest on the kitchen floor to sort out later. I was desperate for a brew and, like an idiot, went looking for Toby, to see if he'd like one, too.

I finally tracked him down to his study up at the top of the house. He called it a study, but I'm not sure he ever really took the time to study anything. Nevertheless, whenever he got a big idea he shut himself away there. Nothing ever came of whatever it was and he invariably emerged a day or two later only to sit, staring out of the window, steadily filling his favourite ash-tray, or to skulk round the house holding interminable conversations with an invisible interlocutor. Often, I couldn't help but overhear what he said. It usually went something like this:

You think I'm useless at everything don't you? Well, I'll show you.

You're laughing now, but you'll see.

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. Fucking fuck off.

When I knocked and tentatively opened the door, I saw he was sat at his desk, hunched over a drawing pad, hard at work with a pack of children's crayons. He looked up as I entered.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, as if he'd been the one looking for me. He held up the sheet of paper he'd been working on, for me to see. He smiled.

“What do you think?” he said.

“What is it?”

“A flag!” he said. “Our flag!”

“Very good,” I said, in my best withering, deadpan sarcastic tone.

“You don't like it?”

“I didn't say that. Would you like a cup of tea?”