by Leo McNeir
Marnie nodded thoughtfully. She picked up her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder, ready to leave. Philip, still sitting on the corner of the desk, looked around for an ashtray. Not finding one, he leaned over and stubbed the cigarette out in the waste bin.
Marnie smiled. “Enjoy it while you can, Philip. You won't be able to do that when Larry’s in charge.”
Out in the parking area, Marnie got in the car and took out the jobs list she had written on Sally Ann. At the bottom she saw the notes about curtains and crockery. An idea blossomed. Today was late night shopping in the West End. She reread the list, got out of the car and headed for the nearest tube. In twenty minutes she could be in Oxford Street.
Later that evening, Marnie dumped her briefcase and the Liberty bag on the mat and opened her front door. She had not bothered to carry the box of crockery up the stairs, but had left it in the boot of the car. The flowers on the hall table were fading. Yesterday's newspapers were still lying on the sofa in the living room. The flat had an unaccustomed air of neglect.
It was too late for a meal. Over toast and coffee she sat in the kitchen to go through the post. In with the credit card bill and the junk mail, was a card from Beth telling her they had arrived safely in Boston. Cryptically, Beth had added a note: “Try not to go bankrupt buying things for Sally!” Definitely a witch.
Marnie tried to imagine how the curtains would look. They had been a special offer, but even then much dearer than she had planned. It was the same story in Habitat where she had found a new range of crockery, dark blue with a pale cream band.
Now that she had made up her mind, everything seemed easier. She knew what she was doing and was going to get on with it. Just do it, as Philip had said. Were there reasons why he was keen for her to be away? She put the idea out of her head, sat at the desk in the living room and switched on the computer. In ten minutes the list of jobs was sliding from the printer. She had written herself out of the office for months to come.
Marnie spent what remained of the evening tidying the flat. Just before ten the phone rang. It was Jane Rutherford. She had the books she had promised to lend Marnie. They agreed to meet the next day.
5
Joshua
Marnie liked Jane’s boat. Joshua was a sixty-footer, dark blue with gold banding and highly-polished brass mushrooms on the roof. The interior had fitted bookshelves, comfortable seating and a lived-in atmosphere. Almost every inch of the walls seemed to be covered in paintings or framed photographs. There were scenes of the waterways in all seasons and a few ancient black and white photos: strong faces staring out from under flat caps or Victorian bonnets, lads and lasses holding the bridles of sturdy horses, children smiling shyly from cabin roofs.
Marnie arrived at five o’clock. Jane declared that the sun was over the yard arm, so they sat in the saloon, each clutching a gin and tonic. Jane gave Marnie the small collection of books.
Marnie read the titles. “It’ll take me a while to get through this lot.”
“Don't worry, keep them for as long as you need. I'll want them back some time, apart from the one at the bottom. That’s for you to keep.”
Marnie read its cover. “Boat Decoration – styles and techniques … by Jane Rutherford.”
“It's a spare one I had lying around. I'd like it to go to a good home.”
“So you’re a writer?”
“Not exactly. That’s my only book so far. I do sign-writing on boats and I teach it too. What about you?”
“I’m an interior designer.” Marnie took out a business card.
Jane read it and tucked it into her shirt pocket. “Hence your interest in castles and roses. That kind of thing didn’t always pay the bills. I’ve often had to take other jobs to make ends meet.”
“So you taught art?”
“I’ve taught, done temping, even worked in a job centre, advising on benefits. But now, I’ve got a steady clientele. Sometimes I have to turn work away.”
The sound of an engine made Jane incline her head to the window. Marnie saw the passing form of the grey and green boat with no name and the old man with the Panama hat, standing rigid at the stern.
“I've seen him before. Do you know him, Jane?”
“Oh yes. That's Old Peter.”
Marnie took another sip from the gin and tonic. “Old Peter?”
“That’s what everyone calls him, rather a mysterious figure. There are all sorts of stories about him.”
“Stories?”
“You’ll find that on the cut. People who’d seem very ordinary in the outside world can be real characters on the waterways, and everyone’s got a story to tell.”
“So Old Peter isn’t just a harmless recluse?”
“Who knows? What I do know is he used to be a working boatman. He’s an engineer, a registered boat inspector years ago. I’ve heard his family history on the canals goes back generations.”
“He told you all this?”
“No. I came across an article on old boating characters in one of the waterways magazines, recognised him from a photo. His real name is Peter William Gibson.”
“I’ll have to take out a subscription.”
“There are some back copies over there. Help yourself. I warned you this could become addictive.”
“Thanks. So what have you learnt about him?”
“Two things of real interest, only one of them from the magazine. He was named after his grandfather, the original skipper of Captain and Mate.” Marnie looked blank. Jane explained. “Two of the oldest working boats on the cut, steam-powered, built as a working pair almost a century ago. Now they’re restored and back together again.”
“So he’s like living history.”
“He was already retired when we first came here years ago, lived on a boat in those days, the other side of the basin. Now he lives in a caravan down the arm by the first bridge. You see him tootling up and down, but I don’t know where he gets to.”
“Tootling?”
“To tootle is to go on a short trip.”
“So a tootle would be such a trip?”
“You seem to have got the hang of it, Marnie.”
“Is that a recognised boating term?”
“Probably not, but it’s a term I use.”
Marnie looked out of the porthole. “You said there were two things of interest about Old Peter. What was the other one?”
Jane shook her head. “It’s just gossip, really, probably Chinese whispers.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Well, when we first came here more than ten years ago, Derek, my husband, said he’d heard something about Old Peter – he was called that even then – from another old guy in the pub. It was odd.”
“What was it?”
Jane frowned. “It seems silly to repeat it, but apparently Old Peter owns something very valuable.”
“Like what?”
“The old boy couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say.”
“Old Peter doesn’t give an impression of wealth, unless he’s an eccentric millionaire.”
“I’ve known one of them,” Jane said. “We had an old lady living near us when I was at school. She always wore the same ancient coat in all weathers, topped off with a battered black hat in winter. My mother used to take her homemade cakes sometimes, invited her to tea. She accepted the cakes but always turned down the invitations.” Jane’s face clouded over. “She was dead for three days before anyone noticed the milk collecting on the doorstep. You can guess the rest.”
“They found her mattress stuffed with money and a will leaving everything to Battersea Dog’s Home?”
“Something like that.”
“And you think Old Peter might be the same?”
“Who knows?” Jane reached for the gin bottle. “Ready for another?”
“No thanks. better not, got to drive home. Things to do.”
“You’ve made plans?”
Marnie reflected for a moment. “I'm not planning to be
here that much.”
“Just the occasional visit to check over the boat?”
Marnie hesitated. “I'm thinking of taking Sally for a trip.”
“You mean a tootle?”
“No, a proper journey.”
Jane looked at her quizzically. “Single-handed?”
“That’s the idea.”
“How much do you know about boating, Marnie?”
“Beth and Paul are always telling me how easy it is. That’s true isn’t it?”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I think I’d better take you in hand. You've got a lot to learn.”
After leaving Jane, Marnie went along to Sally Ann. She opened all the windows to air the boat and went back up on deck to look at the controls. They were surprisingly simple. In the middle of the deck was a tall handle that came up to her chest from a hole in the floor. At the top, it had a grip like the throttle of a motor-bike. The only other control seemed to be a smaller handle attached to the side of the stern rail by a flimsy-looking bracket. It was obviously designed to slide up and down, but when she tried to move it, the whole thing was stiff.
Just inside the door, was a simple control panel with switches marked Lights and Bilge pump and a prominent red button. After a few moments’ hesitation, Marnie pressed it. Immediately, there was a wheezing sound from under her feet, a loud clanking, a puff of grey smoke from the stern, and the engine clattered into life. The elation at this single-handed achievement gave way very quickly to a series of questions. Should it be doing this? Would it overheat? Should she have checked the oil, or added some to the engine? Exactly where was the engine? Should she press any of the other switches? Most important of all: how do you switch it off?
For the moment it seemed happy enough, but Marnie had the feeling, entirely justified, that she was not in control. She realised that putting up new curtains and changing the crockery were just a small part of the great mystery of running a narrowboat. The engine thudded on, no longer smoking, and she could feel a tremor in the decking under her feet. She noticed for the first time that the deck was made up of several sections and decided to lift up the centre panel. Sure enough, there was the engine. It was much bigger than she had imagined, painted a grimy dark red.
Marnie's instincts told her that now was the time to turn it off, before she caused any damage. She would run along and ask Jane. Turning to leap off the deck, she bounced straight into the arms of a man standing on the towpath. She hastily apologised and he grinned back at her. He was about Marnie's age, wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He had short, dark curly hair, a twinkle in the eye and an air of self-confidence.
“Nice motor,” he said, still grinning.
“Do you think so? I want to turn it off, but … I don't know how.”
“It'll cost you.”
Marnie guessed it was meant as a joke, but would feel more like smiling when the engine was silent again. The man stepped nimbly onto the deck and looked at the controls.
“No cut-off switch,” he said. “You're supposed to have a cut-off.”
“There must be some way …” Marnie began. Before she could finish, the man knelt down, put his hand under the top step, held it there for a few seconds till the engine clanked to a stop. He stood up, looked at the controls and shook his head.
“You didn't have the fuel pump on. Sure way of getting air in the system.”
“I … I had no idea.” Marnie was starting to resent the confident tone of the man in the face of her own inadequacies. She wanted to get back onto her own terrain, but realised that for the moment she was out of her league. Also, she felt she ought to show some gratitude at being released from her predicament. “I'm Marnie.” She held out her hand.
He took it, perhaps a little more firmly than was necessary, looking her steadily in the eyes, smiling all the while. “My name’s Gary. If you need any help with the boat, just let me know. I'll be happy to oblige. Any time.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“How did you switch it off?”
Gary lifted out the top step and pointed to a lever at the side of the engine. “See that? You just push it back and hold it till the engine cuts out.”
Marnie studied this carefully. She had a lot to learn. Gary lifted out the central inspection panel in the deck and looked at the engine. He made a tut-tutting sound and drew in breath between his teeth.
“What's the matter?” Marnie was starting to get worried.
“It’s an old ’un, probably needs a full service, maybe an overhaul. These can be a load of trouble if you're not careful.”
Marnie thought of the fortune she had just spent on new curtains and crockery, of her plans for a sabbatical and a complete break for the summer. Perhaps it was not so wise after all. She decided on a tone of casual nonchalance.
“Oh well, it's not my boat, actually. I'm just minding it for my sister while she's away.”
Gary looked thoughtful, then smiled again. “Well, any time.” He turned to go. “Let me know if you want the engine overhauled. Must be off.”
“Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.” Gary winked and walked off.
6
Crate
Gary had it all worked out. It was a neat plan, an improvement on the original, and it could not fail. They assembled by the pool of Little Venice on Friday morning just after ten watched by random passers-by and two men with notebooks and cameras. Two of his mates were waiting on the bank beside the bridge with ropes contrived into a harness. Gary used his boat to push the crate gently towards them. They knelt down and guided the crate into position. Now came the clever part. A third mate was waiting on the slope up to the bridge in his JCB. He had borrowed it from the building site where he was working, just two minutes’ drive from the pool. From the bucket of the digger hung another rope formed into a noose. He lowered it carefully towards the water where Gary attached it to the harness with a bowline.
“Okay, Vince!”
At Gary’s signal, the JCB driver raised the bucket to take up the slack, and the rope held firm. On the other side of the cut, a small group had gathered, mainly the staff from the BW office. Mike Brent stood in the middle of his team with arms folded, grudgingly admiring Gary’s plan.
Gary grinned across at the spectators, looked up at Vince and raised his hand. The engine roared as the machine tugged the box clear of the water. Another signal from Gary and the digger’s arm swung over the bank, the two men putting their hands up to prevent it from slipping in the harness. The arm of the JCB stopped, but the crate swayed in the air. It lurched precariously and suddenly slid without warning out of the ropes that had held it. The men jumped clear as the crate crashed down onto the paving, one corner taking the full force of the impact.
The crate burst apart on the bank, water gushing and slime oozing out as it fell to pieces. From his boat, Gary let out an expletive that carried across the water. His two mates on the bank gave a cheer and burst out laughing. Then, abruptly, the laughter stopped. The men stared at the slippery detritus on the canalside, made groaning sounds and simultaneously threw up. Gary stared, horrified. Cameras flashed. On the far bank a woman screamed. Another fainted.
7
Police
On Saturday afternoon, Marnie returned to the boat. She had made the first pair of curtains during the morning and was keen to try them out. They looked good and she wanted to rush home to finish the rest. Before doing so, she rummaged around in the cupboards to see if there were any books on the technical side of narrowboating in general and on Sally Ann in particular. The pink folder made no reference to the basic practical matters of making the boat go and eventually stop.
She found a variety of manuals, a servicing guide for the engine, a small volume on knot-tying, maps (or were they charts?) of several canals, a copy of the Waterways Code and a well-thumbed paperback of murder on the Oxford Canal featuring Inspector Morse. There was nothing that told her how to make Sally Ann actually wor
k.
While she was thumbing through the magazines, Marnie became aware of movement on the boat. A voice hailed her from the stern deck.
“Hallo! Anyone in there?” A man’s voice with a ring of authority about it. “Police. I’m coming aboard.”
“Hallo? Yes, I’m here.” Marnie began walking through the boat and discovered a constable at the foot of the steps in the sleeping cabin. “Er, you’d better come through.”
She led the way back to the saloon. The policeman was tall and gangling, and even when holding his hat he had to stoop to avoid contact with the roof.
Marnie offered him a seat. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re conducting some enquiries in the area.” He pulled out a notebook. “Your name, please?”
“Marnie Walker.”
“And this is your boat?”
“Not exactly.”
“Meaning?”
“It belongs to my sister and her husband.”
“You have their permission to use the boat.”
“I’m looking after it in their absence. They’re working in America at the moment.”
“America?” He made it sound sinister. “What are they doing there?”
Marnie felt a ridiculous urge to tell him they were collecting a consignment of heroin and cocaine while setting up a new vice ring and robbing a few banks. “My brother-in-law, Paul – that’s Dr Paul Sutton – is on sabbatical leave. He’s a lecturer at University College.” She refrained from adding that he was a biochemist. “They’re in Boston for a year.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed and wrote rapid notes. “Have you seen any odd characters in the area lately?”
Marnie thought of Old Peter, Gary and the weird folk who went by on very tatty craft from time to time. “Not really. I’ve only been here once or twice in the past week.”
“So you haven’t noticed a wooden crate floating in the pool?”
“Wooden crate? Well yes, I did see a box of some sort the other day on my first visit.”
