‘I am grateful,’ he begs, ‘I am.’ He looks down at his feet. ‘Thank you a million times. And for coming to get me. You don’t know what it means.’ He turns to Vera, who has caught up, and grabs her hand, pumping it up and down. ‘Thank you, you don’t know what it means, that you two came to get me. I’ve no one in the world.’
Vera extracts her hand from his. ‘It’s nothing,’ she says.
‘It doesn’t matter where you sleep, I would never report it,’ he pleads.
Vera flinches.
‘If I’ve ever offended you I’m sorry,’ he says, feeling desperate.
‘You should think before you speak,’ says Odeline, walking back towards them.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘You don’t respect other people’s lifestyle decisions. Or their privacy.’
‘You’re right, I know, you’re right.’
‘And you need to clean your boat. It’s disgusting,’ says Odeline.
‘I don’t take care of it,’ he says, miserable.
‘All right, let’s go,’ Odeline says and they walk on, slower this time. John Kettle is on her right and Vera has stepped away from him on to Odeline’s left, and so they travel the last part of the towpath together, their shadows stretching back behind them as they go under the bridge by the Little Venice pool.
That night John Kettle fills two black bags full of rubbish from his cabin, and takes them up to the bins on the road. For the first time in months, he goes back to his boat without a drink. He feels too wrong in his stomach for anything anyway. He lies down on his mattress but doesn’t sleep. Instead he listens to the night sounds of the canal, the wash of water against the side of the boat. In his windowless cabin it is pitch black, just the open hatch letting a small slice of moonlight hit the end of the mattress. He allows himself to think of earlier times on other boats.
There was a time when he was better at life, when he had belonged in it. He thinks back to those days. Life had a structure, you knew where you were. You turned on a wheel. None of this thinking, being chased by your own thoughts. Just the simple rotation of each day: cleaning the cabins, manning the boat, banter in the canteen between watches, onshore leave to look ahead to. When he tries to picture these days, there is always someone beside him. Always at his side, within pinching distance. Constant chatter. High-pitched chatter. I’m your shadow, Kettle. Who smells like a petal? Submariner Kettle. And John is in his bunk again in Portsmouth, low down in the belly of the boat, feeling the gentle rise and fall. Hearing the boys call out to each other. Frank singing a dirty tune. There once was a girl from Chester. John knows the song – it makes him chuckle as his head rolls to the side and he follows the rise and fall of the boat with his breaths, hears his own throaty snore rumbling.
He sleeps better with them around him. They’re talking, they’ll talk on into the night. Frank doesn’t like to stop talking. Hates going to sleep. But John can snore through it. Out cold, out like a light. Laid out. Miles below the surface. Miles below.
THIRTEEN
In a field outside the airport town of Luton a circus is being set up. Men wearing shorts and vests are unloading from huge lorries parked along the fence at the back of the field. Metal poles and huge plastic crates full of wiring are passed down from the back of the lorries. Fake hay bales are being stacked outside on the grass.
In the middle of the field, another group of men are pushing a great wooden pole into the air. The end rising into the sky has a tangle of ropes, wires and pulleys attached to it. The men push the pole vertical and then two hold it fast while the others walk out with the rope ends to peg them down. There is another huge pole ten metres away which they will put up next.
At the entrance to the field an arc-shaped sign lies flat on the ground. It is painted yellow with red writing, and has battered edges. It reads, in old western script: ‘CIRQUE MAROC! CIRQUE EXTRAORDINAIRE!’ Painted cats jump through the hoops made by the letter Q. The sign is shiny with dew. It is early morning and the sun is not strong yet. A few metres back from the sign are flatpacked stalls folded out on the grass, with wooden awnings that have been painted to look like striped fabric. Beside them are plastic boxes of circus souvenirs: diabolo sets, juggling balls, postcards, red noses. One box is full of small harlequin dolls, with black diamond eyes on a white face, long clown shoes, and a red and yellow suit with O on the front. On their heads are bowler hats. These dolls are stitched and filled, stiffly, with wadding. They sell for £19.99 and cannot stand upright without being leant against something.
In a semicircle in front of the lorries, hiding them from view, is a row of traveller caravans. Some look more like carts with roofs, being plain wood with no windows and only a flap for an entrance. Others are more ornately decorated, with carved and painted detail around the windows and proper fold-down steps. The biggest is in the centre and slightly set back. It is dark green, with gold rosettes around the windows. Its wheel hubs are brass rosettes and its roof and sides are prettily bowed, much like the shape of a Dutch barge. On platforms either side of the steps are brass pots planted with real-looking red tulips. The door is green with a gold border and has a small oval window, a red curtain drawn behind it.
A tiny, brown, muscular man in tracksuit bottoms and a vest comes to the door, lifts his fist and hesitates. In his other hand he is holding an envelope. He knocks.
‘I’m preparing . . .’ comes a low, sing-song voice from inside.
‘Sorry, Monsieur, it’s Mignon.’
‘Hello, little one.’
‘There is a letter for you, Monsieur.’
‘Oh? Does it look, ah, official?’
The small man looks at the envelope, addressed and underlined in blue biro:
ODELIN THE CLOWN
C/O THE CIRQUE MAROC
‘No, Monsieur, it’s just handwritten.’
‘All right. Could you slip it under the door for me, Mignon. Thank you.’
The small man pushes a corner of the envelope under the green door. ‘Thank you, Maestro,’ he says, and makes a little bow before turning away.
There’s the sound of footsteps approaching the door, a pause, and then the envelope disappears.
FOURTEEN
The morning after they collect John Kettle from hospital, Odeline arrives at the barge cafe to look through Vera’s telephone directory. She is wearing her wing-collar shirt with waistcoat and trousers, and brogues on her bare feet. Looking out of the porthole this morning, she judged it too warm for socks. She asks for a hot chocolate and says she is prepared to discuss the price, but Vera insists on making her one for free.
‘As long as there are no customers inside,’ Vera says, ‘it is okay.’ Vera is wearing her mauve T-shirt again, with the flowery skirt and trainers. The T-shirt looks cleaner than yesterday and Odeline can smell washing powder. Vera tells her she is the only person who orders hot chocolate in August and smiles, but Odeline doesn’t see what is so amusing. Hot chocolate is her favourite drink. It is therefore a good way to start the day.
Vera pulls the telephone directory from behind the blaring radio and puts it on the counter in front of Odeline. ‘Have a seat,’ she says, indicating the stool. Odeline would have, but now she has been told to, she doesn’t want to sit down. So she stays standing, the ceiling tickling the top of her head, and gets out her pen and notebook, opening it on the latest page. Vera is putting a croissant on to a plate for a customer outside.
‘What happens if you swallow canal water?’
Here we go. Vera takes a deep breath. ‘I think it makes you sick.’
Odeline wrinkles her nose. ‘Do birds defecate into the water?’
‘Certainly. And the rats.’
‘Rats?’
‘Oh yes. Rats love the canals. Excuse me.’ She lifts the tray and takes the customer’s breakfast out. Odeline leans over the counter to check the kitchen area and then looks around the floor behind her. She shudders. There is a wall at the back of the cabin with low doors in it. That�
��s the kind of cupboard where a rat would lurk.
‘What happens in there?’ she asks, pointing at the cupboard as Vera steps back into the boat.
‘That is where the tables are stored,’ says Vera, her smile gone. ‘Do you find anything in the directory?’
Odeline looks around the cabin floor once again and then opens the directory. She flicks the pages over until she reaches Entertainment. She bends down to look through the listings but the radio is singing in her ear and she keeps losing her place. She looks up again.
‘Do the rats come out at night or during daylight as well?’
‘Sometimes you see them in the day.’ Vera is stacking cold drinks into the fridge from a cardboard box; she holds the fridge handle and strains to bend down for each can.
‘Do they come aboard boats?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why do you play this annoying radio music?’
Vera laughs. ‘Yes, it is annoying. It’s the rule. I have to play exactly this station at exactly this volume.’
‘Perhaps that’s why the customers don’t want to come inside.’
Vera laughs again. ‘You might be right.’
Odeline writes the telephone numbers for six entertainment agencies into her notebook. She finishes the hot chocolate, leaves the foam cup on the counter and walks up to the telephone box by the bridge. She holds the door open for a few seconds to air it before going in. She takes the coins from her moneybelt and arranges them in columns according to denomination on top of the telephone. It is a feat of mental coordination trying to conduct a telephone call whilst at the same time judging which coin to put in next. She can’t just use up all the 10p coins, because then she might waste 20p and 50p coins on a call which ends prematurely. It is disingenuous of the telephone company not to give change. It is quite clearly a conspiracy to make more money. But she is no fool. She will not fall into their trap. She decides to start with a 20p coin and ask her opening questions quickly, hanging up if the answers do not sound promising. If she thinks the agency sounds suitable, she will use a 50p to ask further questions. She will keep the 10p coins for situations where she is reaching the end of the call but anticipates one or two more exchanges before it is over. Whatever happens, she will not replace the receiver until she hears the line cut out – the telephone company will make no unearned profit out of her.
Afterwards, she writes the results of each call into her notebook.
Call 1: Magic Wands
Answering machine. 20p not refunded
Call 2: Rabbit in a Hat
For artists who work exclusively with animals. 20p
Call 3: Send in the Clowns
90% of bookings are children’s parties. 20p
Call 4: Abracadabra
Answering machine. 20p not refunded
Call 5: Silent Stars
Exclusively adult event bookings. Registered. £1.40
Call 5: Feathers
Exclusively adult event bookings. Require showreel. 70p
Not particularly successful, on balance, but she will try Magic Wands and Abracadabra again tomorrow, pursue work through Silent Stars and do some research into making a showreel. Perhaps another telephone directory will have more Entertainment listings. But these telephone costs are going to be considerable, and she did not anticipate this in her budget forecast. She will have to make adjustments.
She has two more calls to make. The British Waterways General Enquiries number keeps her on hold for over a minute, at full rate. The machine clicks down 10p every five seconds. When she finally connects to the Customer Services department she would like to complain but doesn’t, because of the extra cost this would incur. The Customer Services woman assures her that their mail service is reliable and that there are only three delivery points in London, so it is unlikely that a mistake has been made, and in any case, a misdirected package would be reported and re-delivered. Odeline hears the line clicking and lets it go dead. £2.70. She forgot to ask whether they have processed her letter of complaint about the tawdry state, personalisation and misleading advertisement of Chaplin and Company.
Her second call is to the Canal Community Centre in Camden. She has brought her National Insurance card and NHS Immunisation booklet with her in her waistcoat pocket, in case they require identification details, but it turns out to be surprisingly easy to book a free steering lesson. They have a slot available tomorrow morning. All they need is her name. She double-checks the lesson will be free and hears the man confirm this just as the line cuts out. £1.30.
Back by the canal she looks both ways, up and down the towpath. Last night she had an alarming dream about Ridley – that she rescued him from a bald man in a pub, a man who was trying to kill him. She beat the bald man away with an umbrella and carried Ridley in her arms over the cobbles of Covent Garden, to safety. She remembers looking down and seeing his shirt ripped and his bare tattooed torso, inky and dark and throbbing.
There is no sign of Ridley or his boat. Or, thankfully, John Kettle. But the drunks are back in their spot by the bench. Just two of them this time, the man in the wool hat and the one wth the grey matted hair, who is rolling a shopping trolley as if it is a baby’s pram. On closer inspection, she is definitely female – today she is wearing a short-sleeved floral dress and has a pair of sunglasses perched on the grey thatch of hair. There is a pillow balanced on top of the junk in the trolley, and a fan of empty tennis racket covers flops over the end. The man in the wool hat is slumped low on the bench with his hand around a bottle. They are singing low notes, their voices winding around each other. A hundred and one pounds of fun, that’s my little honey bun.
The woman rocks the trolley, back and forth, back and forth.
Inside her boat Odeline can still hear the singing, but it stays at a low, constant pitch, and after listening for a minute at the door, she decides it is less annoying than the bursts of shrieking and squawking from the canal birds, who today seem to be constantly landing on or launching off the water, as if it is an airport runway, and all the time making noisy announcements about it. She goes to the bathroom to perform her dental hygiene ritual before rehearsal. When she pulls the microphone light cord the wall light flashes and then puffs out. She tugs at the microphone again and again, but the light has fused. Infuriating. She has to brush her teeth in the light from the porthole. How is she supposed to enter her performance mindset with this racket? But then she has a eureka moment. She grabs the make-up box and takes it to the kitchenette counter, then lifts up the tiered compartments and rummages through the eye pencils and facepaint sticks at the bottom. Aha! Earplugs! She squashes one into each ear, and holds her breath to listen. The birds’ squawks are distant, muted squeaks. Now she can concentrate.
She has folded her bed up against the wall in preparation for rehearsal. This morning she Sellotaped some of the strips of the Marcel Marceau film reels to the portholes so she can see them clearly against the light. She goes to a porthole and stoops to look at the line of stills inside it, bands of black acetate with punched holes down the side, frame after frame showing the artful poses of her hero. More than that, the minute and artful transitions between poses. As her eyes flick down the reels, his ballet-shoed toe turns out, extends, a pose becomes a step, becomes a leap, becomes a pirouette. All the while the rest of the body, the arms, the face, the hands, are changing too. Every inch of his body engaged. None of her books have shown her this. Each image in the books is finished, a frozen statue like the painted buskers in Covent Garden. But in these reels no two frames are identical. He was never, in fact, still. Now she tries to copy these movements, frame by frame, adjusting hands, arms, turning her torso, twisting her chin, extending her leg, her toe. She tries to invoke the great master, the white figure moving in his circle of spotlight on the stage. In just fifteen days she will be there, in the front row of his audience, watching him.
The next morning she is woken abruptly – birds again. This time they are scratching and cawing o
n the roof of her boat. She was in the middle of rescuing Ridley from a huge wolf-like dog. The birds woke her just as she and Ridley were pressed together in a telephone box, the dog barking outside. She fetches a brogue from under the bed and stands up to knock the heel against the ceiling. Usually Odeline’s day sets off the minute she wakes – she is up and dressed within minutes. But this morning she sits back down bewildered on the side of the bed, still half in the dream. There is a warm sloshing in her stomach and her skin is still prickling with alarm at the memory of the giant dream-dog.
Her pocket watch says ten o’clock. She has woken ninety minutes later than planned. There is no time to rehearse, to telephone the other entertainment agencies, or to go to the British Waterways Office to check her pigeonhole. She had intended to do all these things before going to Camden for her steering lesson. She does have time to stop in at the barge cafe en route, though; she would like answers to a few more queries. She gets dressed and straps her moneybelt around her waist – she packed it last night with her A–Z, notebook and biro, change for the telephone and the solar-powered calculator, so she can forecast her telephone costs for the accounts book on the bus to Camden. The moneybelt is quite heavy and jangles when she climbs out of the cabin doors. She stands on the deck and swivels her head in periscope fashion. Still no sign of Ridley or the Saltheart in either direction. An old couple have moored their boat next to hers and she feels like telling them to move, that they have taken someone else’s spot. She wonders if Ridley remembers telling her about the music and performance gatherings on his friend’s boat – she had been full of anticipation for that. Perhaps he has travelled on to that other canal, the one drawn on his chest, and won’t ever come back.
When she comes out from under the bridge there is a squawking frenzy in the water at the end of the barge cafe. Seagulls and moorhens are pecking at each other, their wings batting the boat. Just as it subsides, Odeline sees a fat wrist appear from the small flap of window and drop something into the water. The squawking and flapping sets off again. It is a very jarring sound. When she gets to the cafe doorway, Vera is standing by a chopping board at the sink, cutting crusts off squares of bread.
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