I smile at her warmly. ‘Brilliant.’
Emboldened by this, Rory raises a hand. I nod at him.
‘I just wonder if it might be a good idea to draw a plan. Sorry, I’m one of those visual learners, I need to see what something looks like.’
‘I’m the same,’ says Tansy, and the smile she directs at Richard and Alastair is so sickly sweet it’s tooth-rotting.
‘Great idea,’ I say with faux enthusiasm. My team might kill each other before we even start building this bloody raft.
Alastair huffs but I give him an of-course-I-know-what-I’m-doing smile.
‘Anyone got any pen and paper?’ asks Rory. Richard produces a very small, stubby pencil. ‘I play golf in this coat.’
‘Can anyone draw?’ I ask as Tansy pulls out a tattered scrap of paper.
‘Me,’ says Alastair. ‘I used to be a draughtsman.’
‘Great. Okay. Any ideas on design?’
‘A square with a float on each corner,’ suggests Tansy.
‘They’ve given us six floats, so I think we should use them all,’ says Richard.
He makes a good point.
We spend a few minutes discussing what shape the raft should be. I’m quite happy to let someone else take the lead on this but I guide them back to the mission every time things seem to be drifting, with a mix of cajolery and self-deprecation. It seems to work.
Alastair draws a shape and everyone chips in, tweaking the design until we’re happy with what we’ve got. It’s surprisingly unbloody.
I look over at the other team and my heart sinks. Balls. They are well under way with their construction.
‘Shit,’ says Richard.
‘Slow and steady wins the race,’ I say with far more confidence than I’m feeling. Everyone looks at me like I’m some sort of sage. I smile and stand tall. I’ve never designed a sodding raft in my life, how the hell do I know what I’m doing?
There is one good outcome, because we’ve spent the time planning, we know exactly what each of us has to do. Verity’s expertise is a godsend, and she insists that we cut the rope into lengths. ‘If you have just one length of rope and it starts to untie, then the whole lot will.’ She’s got a point, although it takes up extra time – Richard and Alastair tut at this. Thankfully we have Rory’s penknife. The other plus is that it means that more of us can work together at the same time, tying the poles together at regular intervals. She teaches the others how to knot, leaving them to lace together the base of the raft. We’ve gone with a long, thin design with floats at the front, the middle and the back, figuring that with three of us on each side we can paddle more quickly once we’ve launched the Apollo 11, as our craft has been named. Richard wanted to call it the Titanic, but he was overruled. Too much of a bad omen.
Even though we’ve started construction well after the other team, our raft is coming together as per the plan. Verity is our secret weapon and those knots hold firm when we lift up the raft to attach the floats beneath.
‘Shit, they’re launching,’ says Richard, as the other team hoist a square raft onto their shoulders and run lifeguard style towards the water’s edge.
I look over doing my best to appear nonchalant. Is a square design better? ‘It’s fine,’ I say, ignoring the stab of panic as Tom singles me out, flashing me a triumphant smile.
‘Just one more float,’ says Verity through gritted teeth, her tiny hand tugging hard at the nylon rope.
Richard is dancing about with barely contained impatience. Rory is handing out the life vests while Tansy and Alastair gather up the oars. Alastair is studying his drawing, his mouth drooping a little. ‘Maybe we’ll win a prize for the best designed raft.’
‘They’ve still got to get to the island,’ I say. ‘We’ve got this. It’s an excellent design.’ What the fuck do I know?
‘Okay, we’re almost good to go,’ says Verity still tying the final knot as the others lift up the raft and start running to the shore.
Tom is standing on the other raft and gives us a wave. The Sharks, paddling furiously, are already fifty metres ahead of us on the lake.
‘Shit, they’re going to win,’ says Richard.
‘No, they’re not,’ I say, feeling like a school governess reassuring her charges. Of course they bloody are.
‘Hell, no,’ says Tansy, ploughing into the water up to her knees.
Somehow we launch our raft with all six of us on board. Everyone starts to paddle at once.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Someone needs to count.’
‘I will.’ Tansy starts immediately. ‘One, two, one, two.’
To my secret elation the raft slides smoothly through the water, although I’m not sure we’ll be able to keep up this sculling pace; I’m already puffing.
Tansy grimly keeps count, even though her face is as red as mine.
Is it my imagination or is the gap starting to close?
There’s movement on the other raft. One of the floats comes free and then as we puff and pant our way towards the island, we see that their raft is fast disintegrating. We’re only a little bit behind them now and the island is less than half a kilometre away.
‘Keep paddling,’ Tom bellows at his team. ‘Faster. Come on, don’t give up.’
‘Fuck off, mate,’ shouts one of the team. ‘This is shit.’
‘Why don’t you paddle, you lazy bastard?’ shouts the quiet woman.
