by Leo McNeir
“You get to know about values on a boat,” Beth had said. “What if you do drink out of old odd mugs and don't have saucers? It doesn't matter. The main thing is to get away from it all.”
Well, Sally Ann was their boat and they could do what they liked with it (or should it be her?). Marnie would try to get down fairly regularly to keep it tidy and aired, but she had her own life to lead. She was the wrong side of thirty, with a failed marriage behind her, and she was trying to find a new direction by focusing on her career.
She emptied the water from a vase (chipped) and put the daffodils (dead) into another carrier bag. There were dishes left to dry in the sink. Marnie put them back in the cupboard, where they added to the overall variety. The units in the galley were fairly new and of reasonable quality. There were two round sink bowls with mixer taps and a wall-mounted water heater. The cooker was small but adequate and a gas fridge was tucked neatly under the work surface.
By now, the cabin space was cluttered with carrier bags, so Marnie lugged them outside ready for taking away. On deck she heard the throb of an engine and looked round to see a narrowboat passing. It was much smarter than Sally Ann in dark green and gold with shining brassware, moving very slowly, scarcely causing a ripple. A man and a woman were standing close together in the stern, the woman at the tiller. The steerer raised her hand briefly before reaching for a mug on the roof. Marnie smiled and waved back, noticing how beautiful the morning was, sunlight shining through the trees that lined the bank. Two children were sitting on the roof in bright orange life-jackets, dangling their legs over the side. Marnie thought she was starting to get the hang of boating. It was not as hard as she had imagined.
The sight of all the coffee being drunk was giving Marnie a thirst. She picked up the kettle and held it under the tap. The pump growled. She tried to light the gas. Damn! She was just thinking how typical it was of her sister to leave without checking there was gas on board, when she remembered the systems. No doubt there was a gas tap somewhere.
Out on deck, Marnie pulled off the lid of the gas locker and tried to work the switches. She turned the top one and the connector came away in her hand. She struggled to put it back on, worried that gas might be escaping, huddled over the gas bottle, trying to imagine the newspaper story of the explosion … and its fatal consequences.
“It goes the other way.” A voice at her elbow, a woman on the towpath. Marnie almost jumped with surprise.
“Sorry to creep up on you.”
Marnie straightened and turned. “I didn't hear you coming.”
“I'm Jane, Jane Rutherford.” The woman held out her hand.
“Marnie Walker. Come in. I mean, come aboard.” She glanced at the gas bottle. Jane reached over and deftly fixed the connector back on, turning the switch, all in one fluid movement. She stepped onto the deck and replaced the lid on the container. Marnie led her into the cabin, put the kettle on the hob and struck a match. Still no flame.
“I think I've probably run out of gas,” she muttered.
“Have you turned on the cooker supply?”
“I haven't quite got the hang of all this.” Marnie fumbled at the side of the cooker, located a valve and turned it on. Still no gas at the burners.
“Keep the switch pressed down,” Jane suggested. “It’ll take a minute for the gas to come through.”
Marnie did so, and this time the gas flowed. The boat gave its low growl. “All right, all right, I’m doing my best,” Marnie laughed. “Why does that happen when I'm not turning on the tap?”
“It's just the water pump maintaining pressure in the system.”
“Oh, yes, the system. I've heard all about the famous systems. There's a file inches thick I've got to learn to recite.”
For the next few minutes while the water heated, Jane gave Marnie a guided tour of the boat's systems. She made it seem easy. Marnie took a few notes. Over coffee, Jane explained that Beth had told her Marnie would be looking in from time to time.
“So you’re a neighbour, then?”
“We live in West London, but our boat, Joshua, is moored further along towards the pool. It's a lovely spot here. You’re a boat enthusiast?”
“Not really. I've been for the odd trip on Sally Ann, but I'm not sure it's my sort of thing.”
“Well, be warned. You may find it addictive.”
“I've already been called a water gypsy once today. I don't think it's quite me, all this castles and roses stuff.”
“Castles and roses aren't really about gypsies,” Jane said. “They probably derive from designs on furniture imported from the continent in Victorian times.”
“Really?” Marnie Walker, interior designer, sat up. “I had no idea. That sounds interesting.”
“I could lend you some books, if you like that sort of thing.”
“I do, thanks.” Marnie was thinking more about her project for the brewery, than about the boats themselves.
Jane stood up. “I'll drop them in next time I see you here. Thanks for the coffee. I must be off. We’re taking Joshua to the supermarket at Kensal Green.”
“You do your shopping by narrowboat?”
“Always. Much easier than parking the car. Quicker too, no traffic to worry about. You can tie up right outside Sainsbury’s. Try it some time.”
Definitely more to this boating lark than Marnie had imagined. She had a sudden thought.
“Jane, if you’re going round the island, remember to watch out for the wooden box.”
“Wooden box?” Jane looked blank.
“There’s a crate or something floating in the middle of the pool.” Marnie spread her arms. “It’s quite big, most of it submerged. You haven’t seen it?”
“No.”
Marnie narrated the sighting by the woman on the barge roof.
Jane frowned. “We’d better report it to the BW office. It’s not likely to harm a narrowboat, but it could put a hole in a GRP.”
Marnie’s turn to look blank. Jane explained. “Sort of fibreglass, usually white, used on small cruisers. More fragile than steel. Thanks for the warning, Marnie.”
“Thanks for the tour of the systems.”
When Jane had left, Marnie cleared up, loaded the carrier bags into the boot of the car, carefully went over the boat, turning off everything and fastening all the windows. She looked at her watch. It was lunch time.
“Oh God, where’s the day gone?” she murmured.
Behind her, she heard the rumble of a diesel engine and looked round. This boat was different from the others, the hull low in the water, high sides and round portholes, dark grey and dull green, the colours of a battleship from times past.
Marnie was ready to give the usual wave. Only one person stood at the tiller, an old man, thickset and immobile, wearing a grey pullover and a Panama hat, a pipe clamped in his mouth, staring ahead. There was no wave and no smile.
Gary had wasted no time in putting the word around that he needed some help to lift the crate from the pool. There was a tenner in it for anyone who could lend muscle to the operation, he said. With two or three other men, he reckoned he could get the crate out of the water and charge BW enough to make a tidy profit. The game plan was simple. He would nudge the crate towards the bank with his boat. There, the group would take firm hold of it and heave it clear.
That Saturday evening, on his way home from the pub, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to look back and was surprised when a man spoke his name. In the semi-darkness Gary could not make out his features and he did not like the way a second man stayed back in the shadows. Knowing better than to speak out of turn, Gary opted for a casual response.
“Hi. I don’t think I recognise you in this light.”
“That’s all right, Gary.” A deep voice like gravel. “I just wanted a little word.”
“Sure.”
“You’ve been asking for help to get the crate out of the cut. Any luck?”
“One or two of the lads might be up for it.”
>
“Why are you so interested in it?”
Gary shrugged. “Want to make a few bob. Not often you get a chance to screw money out of BW. It’s usually the reverse.”
The stranger waited. Gary had the feeling he was assessing his reply. “A few bob.”
“Yeah. If it’s yours, well, fair enough. I’ll –”
“Not yet, Gary.”
“No?”
“No. Leave it for a while.”
“All right. I can leave it forever. It’s not that important.”
“Let’s talk about it. Meet me in the pub Monday tonight. Ten o’clock.”
“Okay. Who’s paying?”
“On me, Gary. It’ll be my pleasure.”
4
Sabbatical
Halfway through Monday morning, Marnie sat at her desk looking through the mail from the previous week. It had been sorted into priority order by her group’s secretary. She was pondering the talk she had had earlier with Philip Everett, the senior partner, first about the brewery job, then about her dissatisfactions. He had been sympathetic and had gone through periods like that himself. After long spells of hard work he had sometimes felt stale. He had suggested an extended vacation to recharge the batteries. Marnie found herself making a note on her pad to check the battery-charger on Sally Ann.
The only snag was that she would have to hand over her current projects to Larry. It would be his big chance. Marnie was not sure she wanted him to have his Big Chance by doing her work. It was not his ability she doubted; it was personal. Although she knew that nobody was indispensable, she liked to think she could be the exception.
The phone rang. For the next ten minutes she discussed the brewery project. When she put the receiver down, she saw that she had doodled a pattern on her note pad: a castle surrounded by roses.
It was a few minutes before ten that evening when Gary took the short walk from his boat to the pub. He felt apprehensive. It was not fear. After all, if the strangers had meant him any harm, they had had the perfect opportunity to do anything they wanted on Saturday night when they accosted him. But he wondered what they might have in mind and was sure it would not meet with approval by anyone on the side of the law. And there was one other small point: would he recognise the man who had offered to buy him a drink? Somehow he did not think that would be the main problem facing him that evening.
He was right. He had not walked two paces into the bar when a hand gripped his elbow and he was guided to a corner table. The man seated behind a large whisky flicked his chin up. Gary got the message. An eloquent invitation.
“I’ll have the same as you.”
The guide disappeared. Another head gesture from the man at the table, this time towards a vacant chair. Gary sat down.
“You know my name’s Gary, but I don’t know yours.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The same gravelly tone as before. “I won’t hold it against you.”
“So, er, what can I do for you?”
The other man was back and placed a tumbler of whisky on the table in front of him. It was a generous measure. The man had not been kept waiting at the bar. Gary was not surprised. He picked up the glass and raised it towards his host.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers, Gary.”
They both took a slug of scotch, eyeing each other over the rim of the glass. Gary’s host was middle-aged with a shaved head. He wore a black leather jacket over a black polo shirt. A gold stud in one ear and a gold watch gave him an air of malevolent affluence. Gary decided to wait for Gravel to say his piece. He did not have to wait long.
“Let’s talk about the crate, Gary.”
“I did wonder if it might’ve gone by now.”
“No. That’s where you come in. You saw it first. I wouldn’t want to queer your pitch.”
“But you are interested in it.”
“A passing interest, you might say.”
Gary’s own interest in the crate was diminishing rapidly.
The stranger went on. “So what are your plans?”
“I had thought of lifting it out, for a small charge to British Waterways, of course.”
“Had thought?”
“It was just an idea.”
“It’s a very good idea. We wouldn’t want any boats to come to grief on account of it, would we, Gary?”
“I suppose not.”
“No. So I think it would be very public-spirited of you to lift it out.”
“All right. I’ll get it lifted tomorrow.”
The stranger shook his head. “Not tomorrow, Gary.”
“No? When then?”
“I should hold off till Friday. That should give you time to get your team together. No rush, no hassle.”
“If you say so.”
“Who knows? You might get covered in the weekend press.”
Gary looked blank.
“Friday would be best, Gary. Trust me.”
The next evening Marnie drove to Little Venice to check the batteries on Sally Ann. It was around eight o'clock when she arrived, and some of the boats were showing lights in their windows. The canal had an inviting atmosphere in the dusk, with street lamps filtered through new leaves, and a background glow from the windows of tall houses on either side.
In the engine compartment there were two lorry-size batteries. Marnie changed the leads of the charger from one to the other and stepped down into the cabin. She switched on the lights and grimaced. They gave a harsh white glare. There was an oil lamp on the workbench in the galley, and she took off the globe and chimney to see if the wicks were in place. She lit them with her Zippo, turned them down low and replaced the glassware.
In a storage jar, one of three on the galley shelf – each in a different style – she found a bag of ground coffee and set the filter machine to work. Soon, its smell filled the cabin, and the oil lamp had warmed enough for Marnie to turn up the wicks.
The furniture on board was a motley collection of collapsible kitchen chairs round a drop-leaf table discarded from someone's flat years ago. The impression was folksy but jumbled, and although it irritated Marnie less in subdued lighting, it was a definite eyesore.
She settled herself with coffee at the table in the saloon and began to draw up a list of all her projects at work, writing down the action needed on each one and the timetable for completion. Against the names of the jobs she wrote the initials of the colleagues who would have to see them through if she went away. Larry would have more than half the workload.
“What do I want out of this?” she muttered.
She put a circle round Larry's initials on the list. She wondered if she really cared, as long as she had a break. It was all very unsettling and, since her split with Simon three years before, and now Beth's departure, she felt increasingly isolated. Of course people would say it was just a phase, she knew that, but it was still a problem.
The water pump growled. The boat no longer felt strange to her. She picked up her list of jobs and read through the items, her pen stuck in the corner of her mouth like a cigar. Strangely, she had never had any desire to smoke on Sally Ann.
She scribbled on the pad: ‘curtains’. She added ‘crockery’ and looked around the cabin, musing on what she would do if the boat belonged to her. She thought of the patches of rust on the hull and the scratches on the paintwork, the ropes that were frayed, the fenders made of plastic in different colours.
There was so much to do. She was glad it was not her responsibility.
Marnie had to stay on late at the office on Wednesday to finish off the schedule for a ‘rush job’. That meant the client had dithered for so long that everything had to be done too quickly. Having finished her work, Marnie set off for the loo from which she emerged a few minutes later with hair brushed and make-up revitalised. Philip was perched on the corner of her desk, exhaling smoke from a cigarette, holding a photograph of Sally Ann.
“This your sister's boat?”
“Yep. That's Sally Ann.”
<
br /> Philip studied it closely. “I've often wanted to have a go on one. Looks like fun.”
“From closer it looks like a lot of work. Don't believe cameras. They lie.”
Philip put the photograph down and drew on the cigarette. Marnie recognised the sign. He had something to say. She waited.
“Marnie, have you thought about our chat the other day? Are you serious about wanting a break?”
She hesitated. There would never be the possibility of a clean break, and the idea of just dropping everything was absurd.
“I don't really see it as a practical proposition.”
Philip was smiling. “Are you indispensable, Marnie?”
“Aren't we all?”
“Seriously, though.” He took another pull on the cigarette. “Willards Brewery liked your designs, even though you had reservations about them. Perhaps it's not a bad time to have a break. We could organise the work around the office. I know the signs, Marnie.”
“You think I'm getting stale?”
“I think you've had a lot to cope with and you haven't had a holiday in ages. You could regard it as a sabbatical.”
“They seem to be all the rage just now.”
“You could take a month or two, the whole summer if you wanted, go on a trip, go abroad somewhere. See new things. That's what I did a few years ago. It did me a power of good.”
“What about the work you left behind?”
“There's always someone to deal with it. You ought to write a list of your projects and who’d handle them. Five years ago we would’ve been too busy to cope. At the moment, we can manage.”
“The bulk of the work would land on Larry.”
“Ah,” Philip grinned. “Well, he's an able chap. He certainly thinks so.”
Marnie shrugged.
“Look, Marnie, you said you needed a break. I want to help you, as a friend. We're offering you the chance while we can. You're a first class designer and it would help you sort yourself out.”
“You really think I could?”
“Just do it.”
