‘Won’t that encourage the rats?’ says Odeline, over the racket.
Vera jumps away from the window and then starts to laugh, bringing her hand to her chest to calm herself. She is wearing a pink aertex over a huge denim skirt with buttons down the front. It is shapeless and hangs in loose folds above her trainers and pink ankle socks. ‘Oh, Odi, you do give me a shock.’ She leans back against the sink. ‘I am glad it is only you.’
Only, thinks Odeline, staying on the doorstep. What does she mean, only? And no one has ever shortened her name before. She didn’t give Vera permission to start making up nicknames. Is it because of the hot chocolates – does Vera think that gives her the right?
She opens her notebook and unclips the biro from the cover. She will make her enquiries and then move on.
‘Which shop sells lightbulbs for bathrooms?’
Vera’s thick mouth widens – she is smiling to herself. Odeline wants to ask what is so amusing, but would rather have the answer to her question.
‘It depends which bulb you need. You can take the old one out of the light to check the size.’
‘Do you know how to make a showreel?’
‘A showreel?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is this?’
‘For actors. To show examples of what they can do.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Vera opens a bag of bread and counts out six slices. Odeline wants to stamp her foot. Answer the question.
‘Well –’ Vera brings the chopping board and bread over to the counter, unsure – ‘I think you need a camera. For the filming. And then you need to edit the films into small parts.’
‘How long does it have to be?’
‘The whole thing? I would say a few minutes. I don’t know. I never see a showreel.’ She opens the packet of butter next to the barking radio and starts buttering the squares of bread. ‘Are you making one?’
Odeline looks down at her notebook and turns a page. ‘Do rats attack human beings?’
Vera is smiling again. ‘No.’
‘But they have teeth.’
‘Yes, but only for eating.’
‘Do rats carry diseases?’
‘Yes, I think sometimes.’
‘Deadly diseases?’
‘I never hear of that.’
Odeline steps forward to lean on the counter and write. She hooks her finger around the biro and presses her small, deliberate letters into the page, beneath the query entitled Rats: Deadly? Not through direct attack, she writes. Possibly through disease.
When she looks up there is a foam cup of hot chocolate next to the chopping board. ‘For you,’ says Vera. ‘And this,’ she says, taking a flat croissant out of the microwave with some tongs and putting it on a plate. ‘You are too thin. You need some more weight.’
Odeline looks at the pink aertex stretching across Vera’s bosom, at the roll bulging over the elasticated top of the denim skirt.
‘Maybe not as much as me,’ says Vera, patting her middle.
Odeline wants to refuse the croissant, but her stomach feels hollow and the smell of it is buttery and delicious. She hasn’t eaten hot food since she arrived on the canal. That first evening, there had been a moment when mouthwatering smells from the barbecues in the tower blocks had wafted into her cabin and she had thought about setting up the barbecue in her kitchenette cupboard – but when she’d looked inside the bag it was such a tangle of rusty metal parts that she’d shut the cupboard door again. She picks up the croissant and bites the end of it, sinking on to the stool at the counter. She looks down to check her final query for Vera.
‘Have you seen the warden?’ she asks, her mouth full.
‘Not since we bring him from the hospital.’ Vera is layering slices of cheese on to the bread. ‘I see him working on his boat but he doesn’t come by the cafe. At last –’ she puts ham slices on to the cheese – ‘some peace.’ She places a slice of crustless bread on top, and then uses the tongs to lift the sandwiches on to a plate. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, going outside.
Odeline looks out of the porthole at the island on the far side of the pool. She picks up her hot chocolate and blows on it before taking a sip. There are a pair of upright grey and black birds standing on the bank between the drooping branches of the willow tree. They are like sentinels at the edge of the water. When Vera comes back into the boat Odeline asks her what they are and Vera tells her they are herons. Odeline finds them aesthetically pleasing, especially the flick of black feather at the back of their heads and the way their necks extend. They look more like the ink paintings from her book on Japanese theatre than actual flesh and blood. The looped tips of the wings are scribbled, like calligraphy. They are certainly superior to the screeching seagulls and moorhens Vera gives leftovers to. She is sure that the herons would never lower themselves to fighting for scraps with those sorts of birds.
Odeline is finishing her hot chocolate when Vera suddenly spins around from the sink window and goes to grab the croissant plate and the chopping board from the counter. ‘Please, you have to go outside now like a normal customer.’ She makes a lunge at the radio and turns the music up even louder. ‘Please, can you go now? I am in trouble if I give you things without charging.’ She leans over and shuts Odeline’s notebook and gives it to her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ Odeline takes the notebook and clips her biro on to the front. She stands back off her stool, looking at Vera, who is flushed and frantic now, wiping the counter with a teatowel. ‘I see you later,’ she says, looking up.
‘I’ve finished anyway,’ says Odeline, putting the foam cup down. Vera snatches it, wipes beneath it and puts it in the bin. ‘See you later then,’ says Odeline, stepping up and out of the boat. As she walks to the bridge, two shaved blocks of head come out from underneath, two sets of puffed-up chests and burly arms swinging in time with each other.
She travels up to Camden by bus and uses her A–Z to find her way back down to the canal. When she telephoned, she was told to look out for a boat called Nelson’s Victory, which would be moored opposite the floating Chinese restaurant at Primrose Hill. She locates the boat easily and with some disappointment. It is a modern design in mint green, with a shiny white roof and large white plastic handles on the windows. Fire exit signs are stuck to the glass. Next to the name is a silhouette of Nelson himself, done like an old-fashioned portrait in a white oval. He is gallantly posed holding up a telescope, an admiral’s hat and ponytail leading down to epauletted shoulders and slender frame, with one knickerbockered leg thrust forward, like on Nelson’s Column.
She walks to the bank and looks down into the boat. There is a fat man in a sweatshirt on the rear deck, leaning against the tiller with his fists jammed into his pockets. He appears to be in his own world, tapping the toes of his trainers together. He is wearing a baseball cap from which flows a shock of white hair. He has a heavy moustache, also bright white, and, from what she can see, very red cheeks. The moustache droops down at the sides of his mouth. Walrus, thinks Odeline.
‘I’m here for my steering lesson,’ she calls down.
The man looks up quickly and then appears to hover from one leg on to the other before answering. She half expects a honking noise to come from below the moustache, and is surprised to hear a quiet Scottish accent.
‘Yes. Please come aboard.’ He gestures on to the deck without catching her eye. All she can see is the moustache moving up and down. ‘My name is Crosbie. I’m one of the Community Boat Workers.’
Odeline steps down on to the deck and introduces herself. ‘I am Odeline. I’ve just moved on to a narrowboat but I haven’t steered one before.’
The teacher bends to check the rope tying the boat to the bank. He breathes in deeply, then, still facing the mooring hook, says, ‘The Community Boat Scheme is aimed at teaching all levels.’ He stands up straight and looks around, tapping his fingers against his leg.
Odeline says, ‘I have read my narrowboat manual but I don’t know anything about the engines or the
mechanics. I’d like to understand all that, so as to be fully prepared in the case of an emergency. I’ve brought my notebook.’ She picks it out of her trouser pocket and shows him.
The teacher breathes in again and nods, looking down at his feet. ‘The Community Boat Scheme recognises the importance of teaching emergency procedures,’ he says. He sounds as if he has learned these statements by rote – there is no variation in the tone of his voice. He takes yet another deep breath and announces the start of the theoretical part of the lesson. He points along the roof of the boat to its nose.
‘The steerer’s gaze must be directed at all times towards the bow of the boat. Maintaining this eyeline is the most important thing to remember when steering. The rest of the boat will duly follow.’
These lines sound familiar; Odeline is sure they are direct quotes from the Introduction in her British Waterways Narrowboat Manual, having read it cover to cover several times before coming to the canal. She looks along the line and squints as though she is looking through the sights of a rifle. She imagines a line going forward from her eye, down the roof and off the end of the boat. At the moment it would be hitting the bottom of the floating Chinese restaurant.
Before she has a chance to note down this first point, the teacher trips back into his robotic mumble. ‘This boat is six foot ten inches wide, which is the normal width for a narrowboat. The steerer should keep that in mind when passing other boats. But it is recommended to always allow a boat’s width of extra room as some narrowboats are built wider.’ He pauses. He sounds short of breath, but Odeline realises it is the way he speaks, with a little gasp before saying anything. That and the blushing cheeks make him seem shy. ‘Boats always pass to the right of an oncoming boat. The port sides pass each other.’ He taps the left side of the boat. Odeline quickly unclips the biro from her notebook and writes ‘Port to Port’ under the title PASSING. She likes the sound of nautical terminology but is not yet sure what all the words refer to.
The teacher bends down and hooks his finger into a brass pull on the deck. ‘This is where your engine is,’ he says, pulling the hatch open and looking down into a pit of grimy painted machinery. He begins to indicate the different parts of the engine: the batteries, the isolator, the valves, the grease pipe. Odeline scribbles in her notebook. She will look up these parts in the Manual later on. He goes on to point out the weed hatch inspection compartment, the water tank and the calorifier, and then various constituent parts of those. All this time he keeps his eyes fixed downwards on the engine compartment, and keeps one hand in his pocket. Odeline wonders if he has something wrong with his arm like Nelson.
He announces the beginning of the practical part of the lesson and unties the boat from its mooring, wheezing under his baseball cap and moustache. Odeline positions herself at the stern, plants her feet wide for stability and takes hold of the tiller. It shakes in her hand as the engine comes on, and she can feel the vibrations through the soles of her brogues.
So, so, so exciting.
She doesn’t know what to do with her other arm and so puts it on her hip, making little squeezes to her waist with the thrill of it. The boat begins to move forward and the teacher recites a line she recognises from a caption below one of the diagrams in her Manual.
‘For left-handed steerers, an orientation to the left is made by pulling the tiller towards the body.’
She does this and the boat swings slowly away from the bank. She opens her eyes wide and keeps them firmly on the line along the roof of the boat. She is heading for the opposite bank and pushes the tiller away from herself to bring the boat straight.
He mumbles another pair of sentences from the Manual:
‘The accomplished steerer will make minor and repeated adjustments to the tiller position whilst maintaining the forward eyeline. Some new to steering find this coordination awkward at first.’
Odeline, in fact, finds it comes quite easily. She feels perfectly coordinated and hardly breaks her eyeline as she makes the minor adjustments. They float slowly around the top of Regent’s Park. The houses on the park side are high up and very grand, like enormous white cakes with decorative icing. Odeline imagines women in ballgowns and long gloves fanning down their steps. On the opposite bank of the canal are low rows of narrowboats and barges, stacked up against the side. A jumble of boats, all shapes and colours, all within inches of each other. Set back from the towpath are little boxed gardens for each mooring. Some are beautifully done with tiles, wooden chairs and hanging lights. They pass one with a pair of women sitting on deckchairs in their underwear next to a smoking barbecue, bodies cooking in the sun. Odeline sniffs and looks back along the line of the roof.
‘I would hate to live so packed in with other people,’ says Odeline, imagining sunbathers’ faces lining up to look through her porthole.
Her teacher doesn’t reply, but directs her into a mooring at the end of a row of boats. She manages to come into the bank smoothly and at a perfect angle. She is impressed with herself. The teacher shows her how to rope the boat to the mooring hooks, the final stage of this first lesson. She also finds this easy, although the rope ends are covered with manky weed and she doesn’t have anything on which to wipe her hands. She ends up shaking them over the side of the boat.
‘So what is there still to learn?’ she asks.
‘The next stage in the Community Boat Scheme is to practise turning manoeuvres, including steering in reverse. The following stage is to learn locks.’
‘When could I come for another lesson? Do I have to book it on the telephone again?’
He bites his moustache and nods, which Odeline takes as a yes. ‘All right then,’ she says. She doesn’t really know how to say goodbye to this man and ends up giving a sort of salute. He salutes back and immediately looks down. ‘See you then.’
As she walks away she feels more than satisfied at how smoothly and precisely she has steered the boat. She had thought she would find it difficult but it is the second thing in life which she realises she might have been born with a natural gift for. She is looking forward to the next lesson.
From her A–Z she sees she can get back home along the Regent’s Canal towpath. As she walks away from the grand houses and the busy moorings, the towpath becomes potholed. The foliage along the edge is overgrown – chicken wire and plastic bags sit on top whilst cans and broken glass spill out from the bottom. She comes to a tunnel with graffiti covering the walls and walks quickly through, listening out for what might be in there. She hears a steady dripping, water leaking through the mossy joins in the concrete. Out into the sunlight and walls rise up high on either side – she can hear traffic above and sees the backs of billboards facing the road. This city’s hidden places are dark and stink of neglect, thinks Odeline. Arundel was a one-dimensional place but London has two faces, one as dirty as the other is shiny. The bits hidden from view are not taken care of. She wonders if this is true of the people in London too.
FIFTEEN
The floor of the warehouse was thick with feathers, pale and rippled like sand. In the centre, tipped away to one side on a trolley, was a long boat. It was covered in a crust of white and grey droppings like barnacles on a shipwreck. If he twisted his head to the rust-bitten hole in the wall, he could see cabin doors at the near end of the boat, and also the brass underside of a tiller. The roof of the warehouse was corroded and shafts of sunlight streamed through the holes and came down on to the boat. Flecks and feathers swilled in these slanted columns of light. The air seemed thick and swaying, as if water. Donald could hear his own breathing. Around the boat he could make out the relics of other contraptions, long gone, collapsed and rusted, half subsumed in feathers. But the boat itself was held up whole on the trolley. Donald felt as if he had come across something perfectly, magically preserved.
He didn’t know how long he had been standing there looking. He straightened up and brought his pen up to the paper on his clipboard. The warehouse was derelict – it should certainly be d
estroyed. He pressed the nib of the pen to the paper, but couldn’t move it. Perhaps he needed to go in, he thought, to assess who the boat belonged to. This might have implications for the site report.
He went round to the high doors at the back of the warehouse and pulled at the padlock. It was locked, rusted shut. He looked up at the corrugated doors spotted with rust. The wood around the hinges was splintered and mouldy. He prodded it – his fingers sank in and came away muddy. Then he gave the bottom of the door a push with his shoe and it came away from the hinge. When he pushed further the door came away from the top hinge too and creaked back, leaving a space big enough for him to enter. The top hinge fell from the door frame and clanged against the door, setting off a beating of wings inside. He heard the birds scrabbling at the roof and then, in a moment, it was quiet again.
He budged the door open an inch further and went in, not really expecting the boat to be there, thinking it might have been his imagining. But he found himself facing the back of it: solid and real above the floor of feathers. He walked up to it. He saw four brass portholes along the side and flaked blue and red paint – he couldn’t make out the words that had been once written along the side. The decking at the back of the boat was rotten, the planks buckled and split. He climbed up on to a wheel of the trolley, reached over the side and pushed the cabin door open.
He was looking into what must have been the engine room, with some sort of dial on the ceiling, and a tipped fuel can in the doorway. Beyond that the main body of the boat was a long empty cabin. There was a tarpaulin, stained and green with age, rucked up against the side, and some collapsed crates in the corner. Donald stepped back down to the warehouse floor and moved round to the stern of the boat. He brought his hand up to the tiller and scratched off some of the dirt encrusted around the top. Underneath was a warm gold colour. He carried on scratching until he had made a line of gold in the dirt.
Chaplin & Company Page 14
