Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  “If you had the odd moment … or two …” Beth faltered.

  Marnie frowned and said nothing, hoping the body language would say it all.

  Beth resumed, undaunted. “Well, you know how bad it is for brass to be neglected for a long period.”

  Marnie could not remember how much brass there was on the boat.

  “The Brasso and cloths are in the cupboard under the sink in the galley.”

  “That's the kitchen,” Paul added helpfully.

  “I know.”

  “You see, there's nothing to it really.” Beth smiled as if it was a done deal.

  Marnie was digesting all this when she noticed the document folder on the table. It was a faded pink with signs of the odd oily thumb-print and was thick with papers. It seemed to exude a faint odour compounded of diesel fuel, gas and old engine oil. There was a stout elastic band round its middle, straining to keep it together. She pointed. “What's that? Do I have to learn it by heart?”

  Paul pushed it nearer. “The Sally Ann file. It's got all the info about the engine, the pumps, the heating system –”

  “Okay, fine.” Marnie glared at it. “I don't suppose I'll be needing anything, but I'll keep it in the filing cabinet.”

  “You never know. It's fine now, but when autumn comes there may be things that need doing.” He patted the folder. “You’ll find everything you need to know in here.”

  Marnie had already decided that her contact with the boat would be a visit to the mooring once a month to open the windows and air the bedding. She said so.

  Beth and Paul glanced at each other. Marnie saw the glance and waited. She put on the expression of someone listening to a used-car salesman.

  “It's not quite as simple as that,” said Paul.

  Beth opened her mouth to speak. Marnie got in first.

  “Don't give me that all-you-have-to-do crap,” she said. “What is it?”

  “We rather hoped you might use her a bit,” Paul said.

  “From time to time,” Beth joined in.

  “Keep her running,” said Paul.

  “Shipshape and Bristol fashion,” Beth added cheerily.

  Marnie knew she was in a hole. She could advance all manner of arguments, but for each one they would come up with an answer. Worse, they would come up with more and more reasons why it would be good for her. The trouble was, she did not want the burden of this boat with its engine and systems and … God knows what. It would be like looking after a St Bernard dog that needed to be taken for an eight mile walk twice a day, mainly up steep mountains.

  She became aware that while she was thinking, Beth and Paul were watching her. She suspected that her facial expressions were changing with each thought, so that she was revealing her mind's innermost workings without saying a thing. Beth always seemed to know what she was thinking, anyway.

  The two of them sat there studying her, sharp and eager, like Jack Russell terriers, their heads turning from side to side as if waiting for her to throw them a stick. Her shoulders slumped. She sighed in defeat. She knew she was beaten and would have to give in on all fronts.

  “I won't do it,” she heard herself say.

  Beth looked disappointed, laced with a dash of exasperation. Paul moved off in the direction of hearty encouragement. “Oh, come on … Sally's not as bad as all that. You'll like her once you get to know her. She can be real fun.”

  Marnie put on an expression that said clearly there was no chance of persuading her and it was pointless even to try.

  Beth had a moment of inspiration. “Gary from along the cut has this theory that narrowboats are all about food, wine and sex.” She laughed gaily.

  “In that order?” Marnie was stony-faced.

  Ten minutes later, Marnie was on the doorstep wishing them a good sabbatical, fumbling for car keys with one hand while clutching the pink folder in the other. As she walked off down the drive, Beth's valedictory message followed her.

  “You ought to take Sally off for a trip. You could do with a break. Have your own sabbatical. Do you good, do you both good.”

  Marnie started the car and drove off, waving through the window.

  “Fat chance,” she thought.

  3

  Pub crawl

  Two days later, Beth and Paul set off for America, but Marnie was not there to wave good-bye. She had a big project running in Leicester and spent much of the week in the Midlands, dealing with the client, in this case a major brewery that was refurbishing its pubs. She stayed each night at a different pub to get to know them better. The trip, known in the office as Marnie's pub crawl, involved her in interminable meetings to sort out the details of the interior designs of several pubs strung out along or near the Grand Union Canal.

  Marnie appreciated the irony of the situation. Here she was, trying to sort out her life and arrive at some feeling of detachment, when all the while she was being confronted by the very objects that recalled to her the burden of boat-minding. It seemed impossible to escape.

  She drove from pub to pub, virtuously drinking sparkling mineral water – designer water, she called it – and trying to resolve the basic dilemma confronting her. All the pubs were decorated to look like country cottages. She saw every one of them as a cliché, with their reproductions of old canal signs, their panels painted with castles and roses and the inevitable – and dreaded – horse brasses. She tried not to wince whenever she paid the first visit to each pub on her list.

  Still full of unresolved questions, Marnie set off on the drive back to London at the end of the week, looking forward to a break. She had nothing planned for the weekend and thought she would just potter about the flat, read a few magazines, ring a few friends. Not high society, but as she sat in the third tailback on the motorway somewhere near Luton, the prospect held many attractions.

  The early evening traffic inched its way along in reasonably good humour. It was spring after all. Marnie reached over to the glove box and took out a tape. Without looking to see what it was, she slipped it into the cassette player. It was Acoustic Alchemy, two guitars, very smooth and stylish. Ideal for relaxing after a busy week.

  The traffic spread out across all three lanes and was accelerating towards the next bottleneck. Sure enough, there were the familiar signs for roadworks in three miles. Marnie braked to a halt with a mile to go in the inside lane on a bridge over the railway.

  Below her, the sunlight reflected off water. It must have been the Grand Union. It was following her everywhere she went, like a stalker. She remembered Sally Ann, waiting to be visited, presumably somewhere further south down that same stretch of water. Marnie sighed at the thought of going to the boat to air the bedding, run the engine, see to this, see to that. She tried to recall what the boat looked like, but only had an impression of dull, dark paint and a noisy engine. At least she was becoming aware that all canal boats were not the same. She had seen enough of them during the past week – enough to last her a lifetime – to know that there were different styles.

  A loud blast on the horn from the car behind made her jump back to the present. The traffic had rolled on, and two cars from the middle lane, which was stationary, had already nipped in front of her. She looked into the rear-view mirror and saw the driver behind shaking his head.

  “Black mark, Sally Ann,” she muttered and pulled up to close the gap. It was the first time she had spoken the name.

  Saturday did not turn out quite as Marnie had planned it. Her idea had been to look in on the boat briefly, leaving the rest of the day free. She wanted to see an art gallery that had recently opened in Covent Garden, buy half a dozen paperbacks from her favourite bookshop in the Strand and return via the garden centre to get plants for her window-boxes.

  Just after eight o'clock she threw the pink folder and the boat-keys onto the passenger seat of the Rover and set off for Little Venice. The traffic was light and she pulled up by the railings a short distance from the mooring, confident that with luck she could be away by the ti
me the shops were opening. It was a cool morning. Already the sky was clearing, promising a fine spring day. Marnie had only been to Little Venice for occasional short outings on the boat and scarcely knew the place. Clutching the folder, she wandered along the pavement looking at the boats and crossed the road at the traffic lights on the bridge, gaining a vantage point from where she could look down at the pool into which three waterways merged.

  It was a broad expanse of water with an island in the middle. There was a public park on one side, and much of the pool was overlooked by elegant Regency houses in white stucco. Through the branches of a mature weeping willow standing on the island she could see three long narrowboats moored on the far bank, painted in a dull livery of maroon or brown: waterbuses. Ducks and swans were swimming with convoys of their young. On the roof of a barge that announced itself as an art gallery a young woman was sweeping energetically. As she worked, a narrowboat appeared under the furthest bridge, and the woman glanced up, wiping the back of a hand across her forehead. Marnie was turning to leave when she heard a shout. The woman was gesticulating urgently to the steerer of the boat. Her voice rang out over the water above the noise of the traffic crossing the bridge.

  “Over here!”

  The steerer cupped a hand to his ear, reaching down to the controls to slow the engine. The woman was pointing now ahead of the boat and waving it towards her barge. The steerer altered course, drew close to the barge and slowed the boat to a halt. The woman leaned over the roof rail to talk to him.

  Marnie could not hear what they were saying, but both had turned to look across the pool, where the woman was pointing. Marnie scanned the water and eventually saw the object of their interest. In the middle of the pool was what seemed to be a wooden crate. Marnie could see a corner protruding a few inches above the surface, like an iceberg whose bulk was invisible below the water. She wondered whether such a thing could damage a narrowboat. How thick was the steel of a hull? How vulnerable?

  While she was pursuing these thoughts, the steerer pushed his boat away from the barge and manoeuvred in a wide arc to cross the pool, heading towards the crate. Reversing up to the mystery object, he knelt and extended a hand down towards it. After struggling for a minute he stood up, looking over to the woman on the barge, shaking his head. He called out, but the traffic smothered his words. Marnie caught snatches, “… about it … the office …” The woman’s reaction was a vigorous nodding of the head. The man pointed under the bridge, adjusted his accelerator and slid out of view.

  The excitement over, Marnie headed back along the road towards Sally Ann.

  As Marnie left the bridge, the steerer of the narrowboat cruised under it and tied up against the first moored boat on the towpath side. He walked the short distance back to a small house that looked like a country cottage, nestling in the lea of the bridge. Of average height and build, fit and capable-looking, his walk had something of the rolling gait of a seaman. Stepping through the wrought-iron gate, he crossed the tiny front garden and pushed open the front door, ringing the bell as he entered.

  The receptionist knew him well and announced him by intercom to the office manager. “Gary’s in reception asking to see you, Mike. Are you in?”

  Gary winked at her. She smiled back and asked him to wait. Mike Brent came out from a passageway behind her and thrust a paper into her hand.

  “Get me two copies of that, will you, Liz.” He turned to his visitor. “Gary, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Gary invited him to step outside and led him under the bridge. The two men stood facing the pool.

  “D’you see it?”

  Mike Brent scanned the scene. “Give me a clue.”

  “Titanic.”

  “Try harder.”

  Gary pointed. “There. Got it?”

  “Oh yeah. Looks like a crate of some sort.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s it got to do with the Titanic?”

  “Iceberg.”

  “It’s big? Hard to tell from here.”

  “It’s big, all right.”

  “You think it’s a hazard to shipping?”

  “It could do a lot of damage to a tupperware.”

  “Mm, true. Trouble is, we don’t have a crane in the area at the moment.”

  Gary grinned. “I can get it out, for a small fee, of course.” Mike Brent looked doubtful. Gary put a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t get your blokes to try to haul it out by hand … Health and Safety at Work regulations. One slipped disc and you’re in deep doggies’ doo-doos. Industrial tribunal, compensation, damages, early retirement –”

  “Yeah, yeah, all right, Gary. I get the picture.”

  As Marnie drew closer to Maida Hill tunnel, the pavement began to climb. By the time she arrived alongside the mooring, she was a few feet higher than the towpath. She leaned against the railings staring down at the boat that was temporarily in her charge.

  Sally Ann was painted maroon and dark blue, with a black hull and had none of the jaunty lines and stripes of some of the other boats. She lay drab at her mooring in the still water and looked abandoned. On both sides of the canal new leaves were sprouting on the trees, but Sally Ann had dead leaves on her roof and decking. Dirt from the overhanging plane trees dusted every surface. She seemed to live in a perpetual autumn, grimy and neglected.

  Unlocking the gate to the towpath, Marnie found that close-up, Sally Ann was not only drab, but scratched and dented. Rust marks showed where she had scraped against walls and other boats. For someone's pride and joy, she was a very sorry sight.

  “Excuse me!” An imperious voice from the pavement above startled Marnie. Looking down at her over the railings was an old lady with white hair, tweed jacket and a shopping basket, everybody’s idea of a favourite granny.

  “Good morning,” said Marnie.

  “Good morning. Would you please tell your fellow boaters not to put their bags of rubbish under the trees on the pavement. Some of us try to have standards and keep the area presentable.”

  “My boaters?” Marnie felt unable to identify herself with such a breed.

  “Of course. It's you people who give the place a bad name, you know.”

  This was too much. Marnie, virtually a complete newcomer, objected to being made spokesperson for people she did not even know. Strangely, she found it hard to put this idea into words, especially while being looked down on, literally and metaphorically.

  “Are you sure that it’s us?” She immediately regretted the us.

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Well, it certainly wasn't me.” Marnie was regaining her composure. “You're not the only one to have standards, you know.”

  “I'm glad to hear it. It's bad enough having to look out onto these scruffy boats. Look at them.” She gestured grandly in their direction.

  Marnie looked, as instructed. The old lady certainly had a point. These were not all like the boats pictured in the publicity photos, moored outside the pubs that she had been visiting. On the other hand, some of them were not bad and a few were quite smart.

  “Nothing that a lick of paint couldn't cure,” Marnie said, despite herself.

  “Well, I hope you're going to do something with that boat of yours at long last. After all, it is a bit of an eyesore. A lick of paint certainly wouldn't come amiss.”

  Marnie looked blank, taken aback at having her own criticisms thrown at her by a stranger. “Actually, it's not quite as simple as that.”

  “I suppose not,” the woman said generously. “After all, you are just a lot of water gypsies.”

  Marnie gaped. Was this conversation real? It was certainly becoming one-sided. True, she had put on a brightly-coloured long skirt as a gesture to freedom, the weekend and the onset of spring, but water gypsy! And she did wonder if her gold-hoop ear-rings were a touch flamboyant and open to mis-interpretation. She found herself fingering one self-consciously. Before she could formulate a coherent reply, the woman turned and was gone with a
moderately cordial flourish.

  Abandoned on the towpath, Marnie turned back to Sally Ann and climbed onto the deck, fumbling for the right key. She located it at the third attempt, opened the double doors, pushed the hatch forward and stepped down inside.

  Her first impression was the atmosphere. Marnie had expected the interior to smell like a caravan. This was different and yet somehow familiar, a curious mixture combining oil, the sharp tang of diesel fuel and a pungent aroma of machinery. Of course, she realised, it was the same smell as the pink folder, only stronger. She hung the keys, in accordance with Paul's instructions, on the hook in the ceiling – or whatever it was called on a boat – and felt strangely satisfied at doing the right thing.

  For several minutes she pottered about, opening all the windows and the forward cratch doors. She knew the front part of the boat was called the cratch, but had no idea why. There was a small electric fan, which she put on with no result. Then she remembered the systems. The boat had mains power at her mooring, but the electricity had to be switched on outside in the engine compartment. She found the isolator and pressed it down.

  Back in the cabin, Marnie started as a loud growl came from under the sink.

  “What the hell ...?” She had visions of wild beasts, but the noise was obviously mechanical and stopped after a few seconds.

  “Morning, Sally.” She treated the growl as a form of greeting.

  The fan was now working, and already the sourness in the air was fainter, or she had become accustomed to it. The bedding, the curtains, the towels hanging in the loo – was that the heads? – all seemed to be impregnated with the smell. Without thinking, Marnie heaped everything into a pile on the bed, tut-tutting at the variety of patterns and colours. She found carrier bags under the sink and bundled everything into them.

  With more tut-tutting she inspected the crockery cupboard. Remnants of different sets, some chipped, some cracked. Sally Ann was kitted out with left-overs and hand-me-downs. Marnie recalled the conversation of the previous week with Beth and Paul.