Head of the River Read Online Free PDF Page A

meet you at the car.’
    â€˜Cold? When I was boy we walk to school in minus fifteen. In snow! River was frozen solid, so I train indoors, in tank. You not know cold!’ shouts Dad. He’s irritated now and I wait for the explosion. Dad slams Cris’s door.
    â€˜We go without you!’ he shouts. ‘Come Leni!’
    I follow Dad out to the car. He threatens to leave Cristian behind on a regular basis. Cris always makes it out to the car, just in time.
    The passenger door is broken, so I get in the back and shimmy across the gear stick to the front seat. Our car is on the street because our garage is a makeshift gym. Ropes hang from the ceiling, there’s a boxing bag, mats, weights and, of course, an ergo. Training is ever present at my house.
    â€˜I leave him behind,’ says Dad, trying to start the car. The engine won’t catch. He swears at it in Romanian.
    In my head I begin a countdown until the front door flies open and Cris runs out, barefoot, carrying his shoes, hair a mess, half asleep.
    1-2-3-4-5-6 …
    There he is.
    â€˜Wait!’ Cristian calls. ‘I’m coming!’
    We sit in the car for another minute while Dad tries to start it.
    â€˜This car is a piece of junk, can’t we get a new one?’ asks Cristian.
    â€˜You have money?’ says Dad. ‘You buy car.’
    Cristian and I hate the family wagon. I hate it even more when I ride with Adam in his family’s new BMW with its plush leather seats. In our car all the seats are torn up, springs escaping. The elements have taken hold of the bonnet, eating through the paint. It’s missing a front bumper bar and the tyres are always bald. Dad said it’s not safe enough for Cristian and I to get our Ps on.
    Dad finally gets the old tank started as Mum rides down the street towards us on her bike. She’s been on night shift at the hospital and is still wearing her ID around her neck. She waves at us and Dad winds down the window and blows her a kiss.
    â€˜Bye, my love!’ he calls.
    She returns the kiss, but I can see she’s knackered. She’ll go straight inside, have dinner instead of breakfast, draw the blackout blinds and sleep for hours.
    It’s 5.43 am. My day has started and hers is finishing.
    She’ll be sleeping when I’m pushing my crew down the river on the black oily water, watching the lights from the city bounce off the surface in streaks of gold, pink and blue.
    I look out the window at the empty streets and listen to the birds chirping and calling to each other. I love early mornings. I feel like I’m seeing the very best of the day.
    Cristian
    When I make it to the car Dad’s humming with anger. But instead of giving me an earful, he’s complaining about Westie holding more selection trials. It’s our third batch of seat racing in a few months.
    â€˜Flogging, flogging, more flogging. Where will that get you boys?’ he says. ‘Is not only muscle that gets a boat across line first. Is eight oars in perfect time. Like dance. All people working together. Perfect timing. Perfect balance. Cristian, your crew can win, but you have loser coach.’
    â€˜Tell me about it,’ I mutter.
    â€˜He’s strangling your confidence. Forgetting technique. What good fitness if you can’t row together?’
    â€˜Yeah, all right, Dad, can I have some time to concentrate before the trials?’ I ask, putting on my headphones in case he hasn’t got the message.
    Dad was lucky to get me out of bed this morning. He’s lucky every morning. When he first bangs on my door I play a head game where I try to get my big toe onto the floor. If I can get my foot out of bed, then the rest of my dopey body will follow. Today, the toe wanted to stay in bed. I sometimes wish I lived a normal life. Get out of bed at 7.30, eat breakfast in front of the TV and take an 8.18 tram to school. That sounds too good to be true.
    I look out the foggy