The Narrowboat Summer

by Anne Youngson

  “Some of them,” Arthur said, “would have welcomed it. Both for getting their produce to market and because it brought within their grasp the cheap things that factories made and which it had been hard for them to lay hands on before. Can you imagine having one plate, one knife, one spoon, and if those got lost or broken, you would have to save up and pay a craftsman to produce a replacement? Then along comes the canal, and plates and knives can be delivered in such quantities and at such a price you can afford to buy extras to put on your dresser or hang on your wall. For ornament, not for use. But you’re right, the people who lived where the canals were being dug would have complained, the same way everyone who lives where a major road is being built complains now. These days it’s motorways that deliver clothes at a price that means you don’t have to wear the same thing twice, but we can’t see the connection anymore. The grid has become too convoluted for us to understand.”

  “So we carry on hating motorways even after they’re built,” said Eve. “We think they’re noisy, dirty blots on our beautiful countryside.”

  “And yet, come the day motorways are redundant, when we don’t need them for transport anymore because we have found other means of travel or have squandered the means of travel and are left with two legs or a set of self-powered wheels, think how you would see the motorway then. All those lovely views as you travel slowly along them, the banks and verges rich in wildlife and wild flowers.”

  “Exactly like a canal, you mean,” said Eve. “You’re right. I’ll remember that next time I go up the M40 through the Stokenchurch Gap. I can’t wait, I’ll think, for the traffic to go so I can walk this motorway at peace with nature.”

  “Are you being sarcastic, my lovely lady?”

  “No. I’m agreeing with you.”

  Arthur took his mouth organ out of his pocket and played a little tune.

  “How’s Anastasia?” he asked, putting it away again. “In your opinion.”

  “What did Owen say?”

  “Not much. He never does.”

  “I don’t know, is the answer. Better than I feared, but ill nevertheless. You could go and see her yourself, you know. I think she has lifted the embargo on visitors, or accepted that it’s unenforceable. But not the embargo on grapes or fuss.”

  “I’m not brave enough,” said Arthur. “I wish I was. I cannot look on her in the state she is in without contemplating she might die. And you see, if she dies, part of me will die too and it will be the best part. I will become less of a proper person than I am now. Even less.”

  “I feel that, too,” said Eve, who had not thought of it before but recognized at once what he meant. There was about Anastasia a certainty and honesty that stiffened you up, raised your standards, held you accountable. And without her, it might be impossible to maintain. She considered saying all this to Arthur, but when she looked at him, face averted, hands stroking the pockets of his tweed jacket as if looking for some familiar comfort, she knew it wasn’t necessary.

  * * *

  SALLY: Trompette?

  TROMPETTE: Yes.

  SALLY: Where are you?

  TROMPETTE: Bridge 119 on the Trent and Mersey Canal.

  SALLY: Trompette, I don’t have a map of the canals to hand. Tell me where you are as if I were an ordinary person living in an ordinary house.

  TROMPETTE: I’m in Stoke-on-Trent.

  SALLY: All right. Now, tell me how you are and what’s happening.

  TROMPETTE: Billy’s been arrested.

  SALLY: So you’re on your own.

  TROMPETTE: Yes.

  SALLY: Are you coping? Silence. Trompette?

  TROMPETTE: Not as well as I want to.

  SALLY: Is Billy coming back soon or is this serious?

  TROMPETTE: They won’t give him bail because he hasn’t got a fixed abode.

  SALLY: Literally.

  TROMPETTE: Giggle. Literally.

  SALLY: Have they charged him with anything?

  TROMPETTE: He’s been charged with possessing drugs with intent to supply, and they’re still deciding whether to charge him with murder.

  SALLY: Oh. I don’t know what to ask first. Whose murder? And is he innocent?

  TROMPETTE: He’s not innocent, no. Of course he isn’t. But he isn’t that bad, either. He doesn’t deal drugs, not hard drugs. He’s just always around them.

  SALLY: And the murder?

  TROMPETTE: Thad died. You remember, Thad from Birmingham? He was Billy’s supplier. There was all sorts of trouble going on—well, you know that. Different gangs, knives, whatever. I think Billy was there when it happened. Only there, you know? Not involved. But, this is Billy. Who’s going to believe him?

  SALLY: I understand. What sort of mooring are you on?

  TROMPETTE: Forty-eight hour.

  SALLY: How long have you been there?

  TROMPETTE: Five days. No one has been along to check yet, but it won’t be long before some snooty-pants reports me.

  SALLY: Can you move the boat on your own? Work the locks and so on?

  TROMPETTE: Of course I can. If I have to.

  SALLY: So you could keep moving.

  TROMPETTE: Yes, but … Sally, Sally, Sally … what’s the point? Where would I go?

  SALLY: Where do you want to be?

  TROMPETTE: Nowhere, that’s the point. Or anywhere I don’t feel so lonely.

  SALLY: Don’t cry, Trompette. We can sort this out. Do you have any family at all?

  TROMPETTE: Yes. Mum and Stepdad. They moved to Spain as soon as my useless little arse took itself out of the house to be with Billy.

  SALLY: I understand. Where are they holding Billy?

  TROMPETTE: He’s on remand in Birmingham.

  SALLY: Well, we’ll be in Chester shortly. Do you know where Owen’s yard is?

  TROMPETTE: Yes.

  SALLY: Can you get there? I mean, do you have enough money for diesel and so on?

  TROMPETTE: Yes.

  SALLY: Then set off. If we’ve turned round before you reach us, we can come back down south on the Trent and Mersey and meet you on the way. Then we can work out what you want to do longer term. Does that sound all right?

  TROMPETTE: Yes.

  SALLY: Is that what you’d hoped I’d say?

  TROMPETTE: Yes. What will Eve say?

  SALLY: Don’t worry about her.

  TROMPETTE: I do. I reckon she thinks I’m a useless little arse, too.

  SALLY: But she’s not an unkind person.

  TROMPETTE: No.

  SALLY: Is there anything we can do to help Billy?

  TROMPETTE: He’s got a lawyer.

  SALLY: Good. We’ll talk about it when we see you.

  TROMPETTE: You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I met Anastasia.

  SALLY: Trompette, how old are you?

  TROMPETTE: Nineteen.

  SALLY: Oh, my dear. I’ll see you soon.

  * * *

  SALLY TRAVELED TO UXBRIDGE BY bus and train and underground, carrying the key to Eve’s flat, a change of underwear, a toothbrush and two books (in case she finished one) in a rucksack. She also took her knitting, which she found soothing at the same time as feeling awkward while she did it. She went straight to the hospital. There were uncanny echoes of Eve’s account of arriving at Anastasia’s bedside in her own experience: the drawn curtain, the afternoon light, the slight dread of what she would find when she was in sight of the bed. And again in what she did find: Anastasia a little pale and smaller under the covers, and a man sitting in the only chair beside her. It was a man Sally had never seen before but she had been alerted to his presence by the low rumble of his voice. He was young and dark, and heavy, both in his build and in the way he sat in the chair. He did not match Eve’s description of Owen. He leaped to his feet at once, holding a book in his hand with one large finger marking the page.

  “This is Sally,” Anastasia said. “Sally, this is Vic, who turns out to be the only person so far who is worth having as a visitor. He is
reading an anthology of dog stories to me, one story at a time.”

  “My granny was in a home,” he explained.

  “Find another chair,” ordered Anastasia, “and finish the story. Then you can go home with the satisfying feeling of a duty performed.”

  The story was about a yellow dog, which had been a menace in the part of the story Sally had missed but was now a reformed and lovable character. Anastasia listened to the end with her eyes shut then opened them to say: “Sally doesn’t like dogs.”

  “I don’t like dogs in general,” Sally said. “But I’ve grown to appreciate Noah in particular.” When Vic had left, she said: “Jacob told us Vic was terrified of you.”

  “Oh, he still is,” said Anastasia. “But he’s developed a strategy for coping.”

  “Have you?” asked Sally. “Developed a strategy for coping. With being ill.”

  “No,” said Anastasia. “I’ve got one foot stuck in denial and the other hovering over a swamp of self-pity. Tell me about you.”

  “I’ve got both feet on the ground,” Sally said. “But I don’t know where they’re leading me.”

  “No rush,” said Anastasia.

  They sat in silence for a while, Anastasia watching the clouds through the window, Sally looking at the place where the cannula had been inserted, like a blood-sucking stick insect, into the back of Anastasia’s hand.

  “Tell me,” she said, “how do you manage to take the Number One through a lock when you’re on your own?”

  Anastasia smiled. “A good question, my dear. A good question. You will need to work out the best way for yourself, but to start with, tie the boat up at the bollards before the gates. Prepare the lock. Open the gates. Then you have a choice. You can haul the boat in with the bow rope or you can drive it in. Either way, take the center rope round a bollard on the lock side as soon as the boat is in, to hold it steady in the center of the lock. Do not tie it up—just let the slack out as the lock empties or take it up as the lock fills.”

  “Which approach do you favor?”

  “I used to haul the boat. I liked the physical effort. Then it became harder to do that, so I began to use the ladder. Now, I don’t have the strength or the stamina to do it alone. But you do. You have options.”

  “I know,” said Sally.

  * * *

  Sally woke up in Eve’s bed in Eve’s flat and realized she had room to spread. She could enjoy the feel of the fresh, taut cotton sheets to the very extremity of her reach. It was an experience she could not recall having often enough in her life to make it seem ordinary. Duncan was rarely absent from the double bed at 42 Beech Grove; the bunk on the Number One was no wider than she was. But here, she had a full king-size to herself; a flat to herself; space to move around in and do as she wanted. To be as self-indulgent as she chose, as idle or as productive as the mood took her. What it must have been like, she thought, to be Eve.

  But she was not Eve. She had responsibilities for others that Eve did not have. She had arranged to meet her daughter for lunch before going back to Staffordshire. It was a pleasure to see Amy, whose bounce and freshness always delighted her, though she knew the phrases “I don’t understand…” and “But why?” would feature heavily in an hour without many thoughtful silences, and so it proved. Her father’s daughter, Sally thought, smiling at Amy over the wooden table in a vegan café she had not known existed and would not choose to visit again.

  “What are you smiling at?” asked Amy.

  “I’m only thinking how much I love you,” Sally said.

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. Have I not been in the habit of mentioning it?”

  “Not really. I love you too. In fact,” she paused, “I can see you are happier than you used to be, and I suppose that must mean that, if I love you, I should stop going on at you and be pleased you’re doing what you’re doing.”

  “I’d like you to be pleased,” said Sally. “But I don’t expect it.”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Same old Mum,” she said. “Don’t you worry about me.” She lifted her fingers to indicate the last sentence was a quotation.

  “Well, don’t,” said Sally.

  It was late when she finally reached the Number One, which Eve and Arthur had moored outside a village on a bus route from Stafford. It was called Gnosall, and Sally savored the name but found, when she inquired at Stafford train station for the bus stop, that she was mispronouncing it. She paused for a minute in the dusk, on the towpath, looking toward the Number One, which she began to feel she could recognize however dark it was, much as she would be able to recognize her children or her husband from the merest gesture or smallest body part. It felt more like home than 42 Beech Grove had ever been.

  8

  To Chester

  THERE WAS SOME CONVERSATION after Sally’s return about the next part of the journey. Eve had had a message that a member of the family she had lived with as a child had died. She still thought of the cousins and aunts and uncles and the place they lived as family and home. This did not mean they felt like Eve’s home and Eve’s family, precisely—these were things that other people had while she only had houses and parents—but their home and their family circle were places where she knew she was welcome and where she felt she had some right to be. It was Great-Aunt Esme who had died. She had lived nearby and had been part of this home-ness, this family-ness. No question, Eve had to go to the funeral in a couple of days’ time.

  But they also needed to get to Chester. They both looked at Arthur.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. Perhaps … Owen could send someone to help Sally?”

  “I don’t have to leave for another three days,” Eve said. “We should be below the locks at Audlem by then, and we could ask Owen to send someone to help from there.”

  “Or I could take it myself,” said Sally.

  Eve had a moment when she imagined Sally and the Number One as a self-sufficient unit, as woman and boat together, and she experienced the sensation—part envy, part a feeling of personal failure—she had had at work when someone else received a promotion when she had not. But it was only a slight flicker of pain; there was a purpose to the days ahead. Things to do, places to be. That turned out to be something she had missed. And anyway, Owen, when consulted, agreed to help.

  * * *

  When they woke up the next morning, Arthur and his tent had gone. A note written in tiny handwriting on the back of a Pay and Display parking ticket was tucked into the rear door. Lovely ladies, it said, forgive me my cowardice.

  “He’s a sad one,” Sally said.

  “Do you know,” Eve said, “I thought, when we started out, there was a brighter, sparkier Yasmin-flavored Sally that needed to be teased out. Now I realize I was wrong. There was a softer, kinder Sally lurking inside and it’s broken through with no help from me.”

  Sally’s hair was lighter than it had been when they started the journey, the result of weeks in the sun, tipped here and there with pink highlights, now faded to a pleasanter, muted hue. She was wearing a loose blue shirt and a pair of jeans she had shortened, cutting off the bottoms of the legs and hemming them, neatly, below the knee. She looked—Eve could think of no other word—gentle.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “you’re a failed project. Here I was, trying to make you bright and shiny and hard-edged, and you’ve let me down.”

  “Would you have liked Yasmin better?”

  “She’d probably have begun to annoy me by now.”

  “And I haven’t?”

  “Funnily enough, no. Have I begun to annoy you?”

  “No,” said Sally, “and I can’t imagine you ever will.”

  The day was wet but they both put on their waterproofs and went out to watch the landscape of the canal passing, even though only one of them was needed at the tiller and there were no locks. But they both sensed a turning point in this adventure as they neared Chester. They would not be coming back this way, if they had to go down the Tr
ent and Mersey to meet up with Trompette, and it felt important to taste each minute as if it were the last precious drop of honey when the jar is almost empty. And it was a strange stretch that neither of them would have wanted to miss, with deep cuttings and long embankments, so one moment they seemed trapped in an eerie atmosphere of dripping vegetation, looking out for plants and wildlife a few feet from the boat, and the next they were raised above the land around them, exposed to the rain, eyes lifted to the views of distant fields and farms crouched under the gray sky.

  They moored up early below the first of two sets of five locks. The rain was heavy and everything they touched and everywhere they put a foot was slick, slimy, slippery. Eve had been reading Anastasia’s collection of memoirs of the men (and some women) who had led working lives on the canals, and she felt this early descent into the dry, warm coziness of the cabin, the avoidance of a couple of hours of physical effort, was a little bit shameful.

  “These people went on through half the night,” she told Sally.

  “They had a living to make,” Sally said.

  “We have a purpose, too,” said Eve. “We need to get to Chester.”

  But it was raining, and it would be a chore to work the locks in these conditions, whereas tomorrow, so the forecast said, it would be sunny and warm. They both knew that it would not be long before their last lock was behind them, and how might they regret, then, not having taken time at every opportunity to stroll across lock gates, over bridges, watch the water level sinking, feel the moment when the gate responded to pressure on the beam and the next section of canal opened up ahead of the Number One’s prow. They said none of this to each other, but they both felt it. So they stopped for the night.

  * * *

  After the first, short day, it had been hard work to reach this point. There had been a narrow section cut through rock (“Imagine doing this by hand,” said Eve), and they’d had to maneuver to allow a couple of boats coming south to pass. Then they’d had to queue for each of the ten locks. This meant the trip, which should only have taken five hours, took nearer to eight. And it had been hot.