The Last Ferry

At the end of the pier, where the lamps have come on, and the day boats are in, and the day trippers gone, there’s a ferry that waits with its engine turned low, and it’s small, and it’s blue, and it’s ready to go.

And the skipper is Hugh, and he’s done this for years, and he knows every wave by the sound in his ears, and he leans on the rail with a mug in his hand, and he watches the road that comes down from the land.

For the last of the ferries goes out at a time when the island is dark, and the moon’s on the climb, and it waits for the ones who are working till late, and it never once goes if there’s one at the gate.

Here comes Peg with her shopping, a bag on each arm, and she’s puffing a bit, but she comes to no harm, and Hugh carries them on, and he says, “There you go,” and she says, “You’re a love,” and she sits down below.

Here comes Dean, who’s a teacher, with books in a stack, and he’s tired, and he says he will finish the stack on the island, he says, and he sits by the door, and he’s said that before, and he’ll say it once more.

Here’s a boy and his dad, and the boy’s fast asleep on his dad, who is carrying him, and a heap of a coat, and a kite, and a bucket, as well, and the boy doesn’t stir when they ring the boat’s bell.

And there’s Sprout, who’s a dog, and who’s nobody’s dog, but who rides every night, and who’s known as the dog of the boat, and he sits at the front and he looks at the sea like a captain, and Dean at his books.

And Hugh looks at his watch, and he looks at the road, and there’s nobody coming, and that’s the whole load, so he unties the rope, and he pushes off, clear, and the ferry goes out past the end of the pier.

And the water is black, and it’s flat, and it’s wide, and the lights of the town go along on one side, and they wobble, and shrink, and they slip out of view, and ahead there’s the island, a smudge, and a few

of its lights coming on, one by one, as they go, like the lamps in a house being lit, in a row, and Peg says, “That’s ours, that’s the one by the hall,” and the dad says, “And ours,” and the boy sleeps through all.

And it’s cold on the deck, but the cabin is warm, and there’s no wind tonight, and there’s no sign of storm, and it smells of the dog, and of diesel, and chips, for Peg’s brought a bag, and she shares it, and tips

the last few to Sprout, who says nothing, but eats, and then sighs, and lies down in the space by the seats, and the dad has a chip, and the teacher has two, and it’s not a lot, chips, but it’s something to do.

And the engine goes on with its thrum and its beat, and it comes through the floor, and it comes through the seat, and it’s steady, and slow, and it’s nothing but sound, but it’s sound that you sleep to, when you’re homeward bound.

And the boy’s fast asleep, and the dog’s nearly there, and Peg’s nodding a bit in the warm of the chair, and Dean’s shut the books, for he’s marked, he says, all that a man can be asked to, and leans on the wall.

And Hugh’s at the wheel, and he’s quiet, and he steers by the lights, and the feel, and the sound in his ears, and he knows where the rocks are, and where the sea’s deep, and he’s done it so long he could do it asleep.

And the island comes up, and it’s bigger, and near, and the harbour comes round with its lamp on the pier, and Hugh brings her in, slow, and it’s barely a bump, and Sprout’s up on his feet, and he’s off with a jump.

And the rope goes around, and the ferry’s tied fast, and the engine goes down, and it’s quiet at last, and Peg gathers her bags, and the dad lifts his son, and the kite and the bucket, and Dean carries one.

And they go up the steps, and they go up the hill, and their lights are all waiting, and the island is still, and Peg calls out, “Goodnight,” and the dad does it too, and Dean waves with a book, and Sprout barks, and they’re through.

And Hugh stays a bit, for a skipper will stay, and he coils up the rope, and he puts things away, and he turns off the lamps, one by one, in the boat, and he stands on the deck in his old yellow coat.

And the sea is all quiet, and lapping the wall, and across on the far side the town’s very small, and its lights go out too, one by one, as he looks, like the closing of doors, or the closing of books.

And he thinks, as he does every night, that it’s good to have brought them all home, like a ferryman should, and he locks up the cabin, and climbs up the stair to the house by the harbour, and Sprout’s lying there.

And the ferry is tied, and the lamps are all out, and it rocks on the water, with no one about, and it sleeps, if a boat can, and I think it can, and the island’s asleep, and the dog, and the man.