Nicola would have loved the houseboat. Rowan could not help looking curiously around her borrowed domain herself. The interior of the boat was panelled with stained and dragged wood, but, apart from the cupboards under the seats of the long settees that ran down either side of the cabin, there was very little of the walls to be seen. Partly this was because the windows were large and let in plenty of light despite the curtains, neatly tied back from each one; mostly it was because of the sheer number of things fastened to the walls. There was a clock, of course, and a barometer, and a long bookshelf over the door into the fo'c'sle, and a shorter one just below it both crammed full of books, mostly non-fiction and many rather battered. All of this didn't say very much, perhaps, about the absent Mr Turner, but the other things fastened to the walls said plenty. There was a boomerang and a digeridoo and a bamboo flute. There were models of various types of sailing ship – a catamaran and a brightly coloured wooden fishing boat like the one Giles had had when they were small children. Rowan assumed that was Maltese. There were ceramic plates and a brass tray and weapons and things Rowan simply had to assume were weapons because she could not imagine what else you could to with them. There was an exquisitely painted and lacquered papier-mâché tray showing a scene that Rowan thought might be from a Russian fairy tale and a very small, beautiful carpet.

"It's so exactly as you would expect the room of someone's much travelled uncle to be, that it almost isn't real." Rowan said aloud.

"Well Captain Flint is real enough." Roger said.

"Sorry – I didn't mean … and it's very kind of him. Are you sure he really doesn't mind?" Rowan said.

"Nancy said that Mrs Blackett said that she was sure he wouldn't. There hasn't been time to have a reply yet apparently. It's not a telegraph sort of thing."

"No." Rowan agreed. "What country is he in?"

"You know, Mrs Blackett didn't mention where. Nancy didn't either. I suppose that means they don't know, but they seemed quite sure that a letter would get to him eventually. Or he might come home first again, I suppose."

"That could be awkward. And what do you mean, again?"

"That was the winter the Lake froze over and Nancy got mumps and gave us all an extra holiday. Nancy had talked the doctor into bringing up the key to the houseboat and asked which of us was sleeping there. We hadn't even thought about it, not really, but Peggy…"

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Roger told the story pretty well, Rowan thought, and by the time he had finished, he had shown her how to light the stove and the primus, and they had made themselves a pot of tea, and were sitting at the long narrow table drinking it. Roger returned to the former conversation.

"You know – I never really thought about it. It does seem odd."

"What does?"

"Captain Flint. I mean when you're a kid you don't really question it. Mostly, I suppose because it's what you'd do yourself, if you could – travel about and have adventures. And the Amazons told us that

Author's note

I think it's been obvious from the start that I've been really struggling to tell this story. This is certainly not the fault of the characters, and has been very unfair on them indeed, especially Roger and Rowan, but also Mr Dixon who has had to put up with broken leg for the best part of a year, poor fellow.

It would be easy to blame "real life", but the truth is that I've been able to make more headway with stories with just as much, and more, going on.

I suspect it's my fault for trying to tell the story at the wrong time. I was waiting for something else to happen before I could start telling the stories that really should have been told next. It's time to admit to myself that the something else is very unlikely to ever happen – and I was loathsomely foolish to think that it ever would. (At least by Marlow standards. I like to think that after Capt. Nancy had finished calling me a galoot, she would say "Well, everyone's got to learn somehow.")

And the stories that should have been told next have, quite understandably, got fed up and gone away. I do hope they find a better storyteller for themselves. It seems quite likely that they will, on here.

So for the time being, the best thing seems to be to admit my guilt for breaking faith by Not Finishing the Story, apologise to kind readers and reviewers and to the story itself and confess "I give up."

I know I should take the story down if I don't intend to finish it, but am too selfish to want to lose the reviews. If you want to know how I think the story will play out, you could message me or leave a review and I can private message you with a precis, so that only those who want to know find out. Or you can make up your own ending, of course.