by Leo McNeir
“Yes. That's all right, isn't it? You said I could.”
“Sure. It's just a surprise, that's all. I didn’t think you were that keen. Who are you going with … Steve?” There was a suspicious smile in her voice.
“No, nobody, just by myself.”
“Really? Well, you'd better get some practice in. There's a fair bit to learn if you want to go solo. You could ask Jane Rutherford for advice. Her boat’s called Joshua. She's very helpful. There are one or two others along the cut. But watch out for a character called Gary. You might bump into him.”
Marnie winced. “I already have.”
“Don't say I didn't warn you.”
“Do you know an old man with a grey and green boat, Panama hat, pipe?”
“That’s Old Peter. Everybody knows him. He's what's known as a character. Can't say I've ever spoken to him. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing in particular. I’ve seen him go by a few times.”
Beth gave Marnie her phone number and reminded her there was a five hours’ time difference between them. Marnie said nothing about the body parts in the crate.
She showered in the white and blue tiled bathroom she had designed when she bought the flat three years before. Lathered with her favourite gel, she stood under the powerful hot jets. After Sally Ann, her home seemed so spacious. She wondered how she would cope with a shower on the boat that was so narrow you could hardly move.
Marnie dried herself on a blue and white striped towel. In the bedroom she switched on the CD player and let Corelli waft around her like a summer breeze. Would a trip on Sally Ann be a big mistake? She had once read that if you have a four-star lifestyle, you would not be happy with a one-star holiday.
She sat up in bed with a notepad and pencil and started to redesign the boat. When she nodded off, her head was filled with colours, the patterns of oriental rugs, designs for towels and tiles. And with the echo of the clang that had rung out when she bumped into Gary in the tunnel.
9
Plans
The handover of Marnie's jobs to her team was going well. The day after the boating lesson, she went direct to Sally Ann after work. She parked near the pool of Little Venice and calculated the meter had almost enough time left to take her up to the end of the charged parking period. A good sign, she thought.
Marnie walked slowly along the towpath looking at the boats. There must have been about forty, most of them reasonably presentable, but even the smartest had scratched paintwork. The canals were evidently not designed to keep up appearances. They were built of stone and steel, with hard surfaces and sharp corners.
Marnie wondered how she could smarten up Sally Ann’s drab, dreary colour scheme without a total repaint. She took a chair and notebook out onto the towpath and sketched the boat. The bow area looked a mess, so Marnie unhooked the cover that sagged sadly over the cratch and dumped it on the ground. Now Sally Ann had an almost raffish look, and for the first time Marnie could see a certain charm in her lines.
Lost in thought and concentration, Marnie spent more time than she realised imagining the boat in different colours. She had no desire to spend the summer stuck at the mooring with a paintbrush, but what if she just lightened the roof, touched up where necessary and eliminated the rust?
Suddenly she noticed that dusk was coming down. She heaved the defunct cover into the cratch-well, locked up and set off along the towpath in high spirits. It was a mild evening; the air was warm; swallows were swooping over the water. That had to be a good omen.
It was only when she was in the car that Marnie noticed the parking ticket stuck to the windscreen.
Marnie arrived back at the flat, still fuming from the parking ticket. The red light on the answering machine winked at her, and she prodded its button irritably. After the beep, a cheerful voice.
“Hi, Marnie, it’s Jane, Jane Rutherford. I seem to have been inspired by your enthusiasm and the fine weather. We’ve decided to take Joshua for a short trip, not just a tootle, a few days out in the country. Back at the weekend. Talk to you soon. Bye!”
Marnie wandered through to the kitchen. It was too late for her to be bothered with making a meal. This was becoming a habit. Rummaging in the fridge, she found a packet of smoked salmon. She pulled off two slices from a granary loaf in the freezer and popped them in the toaster. With the smell of hot toast permeating the kitchen, her appetite and morale revived slightly. She buttered the toast, laid salmon on each piece, sprinkled them with lemon juice and black pepper and ate at the workbench, perched on the stool, reading her notes on Sally Ann.
Sipping designer water, Marnie felt she was entering a kind of half-life, no longer fully engaged in the office, not yet part of the boating fraternity, on the brink of jeopardising a career with its stability and certainties to go off wandering like a gypsy on a canal boat. It would be exciting if it wasn’t so scary.
On Wednesday night Gary’s relationship with Gravel took a new turn. Watching a football match on TV he heard a knock on the boat’s window. He opened one flap of the centre doors. In the faint illumination from a street lamp along the towpath, Gravel was standing, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Behind him, his sidekick waited in shadow.
Gary opened both doors wide. Watching the men coming down the steps backwards, he was reminded of the old threat, We know where you live. The visitors seemed to fill the cabin, even with Sidekick lurking behind his boss. Gary switched off the TV and gestured to the dinette.
Gravel shook his head. “Thought I’d just drop in, Gary, as I was passing by to see how you’re getting on with our mutual friend. What have you found out about his … valuables?”
“I’m working on it.”
“That’s good, Gary, but don’t take too long. You’ve just got to get your head round it.”
“I am trying to find out about it.”
“Fine. Find out about it, and then find it.”
“The trouble is, it may not even exist. I’ve talked to people who know Old Peter – in a roundabout sort of way – and they all think it’s just a rumour.”
“Do they now? Is that what they think?”
“That’s what everybody thinks.” Gary wanted to add, That’s what I think, but he thought better of it.
“Find it, Gary.”
“Like I said, I’m working on it. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“When you find something, Gary. Then, when we’ve got our hands on it, we’ll cut you in.”
“Cut me in?”
“That’s right. You’d rather be cut in than cut out, Gary. Think about it. Think about it tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Who knows what tomorrow might bring?”
Marnie was stuck at the traffic lights in Swiss Cottage on her way to the office on Thursday morning. She was paying scant attention to the radio until she heard the name Little Venice.
… the dismembered body found in the crate when it was lifted from the pool last Friday morning. The police now believe the killing was probably linked to a drugs ring that has been under surveillance for some months. Detective Inspector Bruere of the Metropolitan Police appealed for anyone who might have information to come forward …
Gary sat at the dinette enjoying his usual hearty breakfast: a cup of black instant coffee and his first fag of the day. His first job of the day was to find out about Old Peter and his supposed valuables. Gravel wanted him to think about it today, so that was what he’d do.
A sudden coughing spasm, also his first of the day, seized Gary and he reached for the cup to drown it with coffee. At that moment the eight o’clock news headlines were interrupting the flow of noise from the local pop music channel on the radio. One item almost made him choke. He grabbed for the switch to turn up the sound.
… has now been confirmed that the body was a member of a local drugs gang, caught up in a battle for control of organised crime in the area.
Gary sat stunned. What sort of people am I getting involv
ed with? He sipped his coffee and grimaced. It tasted bitter. Suddenly everything about his life was bitter. Why did they contact me? He could hear Gravel speaking … think about it tomorrow, Gary … He returned to his question … why me? It was obvious. There would be no trails leading back to Gravel and his friends. They only came out of the shadows when they wanted publicity, and they knew some imaginative ways of getting it.
10
Engine Trouble
By mid-morning on Saturday, Marnie had sandpapered the boat’s roof and painted half of it with undercoat. She was aching in every joint and feeling uncomfortably warm in her overalls. The worst problem was the discomfort of kneeling on solid steel for hours on end with only folded towels as a cushion.
Soon after Marnie started sandpapering, Gary went by on a working boat and gave her a friendly wave. It turned into a mime reminiscent of scrubbing. He obviously thought it was humorous. Marnie drew two conclusions: (a) he did not understand what she was doing; (b) Gary and hard work were not the most regular companions.
Marnie straightened her back and stretched. There was no turning back now. The sun was climbing and the roof was warmer to touch. It also seemed to be getting longer. As she dipped her brush in the tin, a grey and green boat cruised slowly past. The old man at the tiller gave no impression of having seen Marnie.
Passers-by on the pavement overlooking the towpath called out encouragement. At one point she noticed three children staring down at her through the railings. She carried on painting.
“Hey, lady!” one of them cried out.
Marnie pretended not to hear.
“La-a-a-dy!” all three chorused as loudly as they could.
Marnie looked up. They were three boys, aged about eight or nine.
“Is that the boat we seen on the telly?” the first one called. “Rosie and Jim’s boat?”
“Sorry, ’fraid not.”
“Is it your boat?”
“Yes.”
Then came a staccato flow of questions in quick succession:
“Do you live on the boat?”
“Has it got a loo?”
“Have you got a telly?”
“Have you got kids?”
Marnie looked up and they fell silent. “My answers are no, yes, no and no, in that order.”
For three seconds they said nothing. Then the first interrogator started again. “Can we come for a ride on your boat?”
Marnie shook her head.
“Please!” they shouted in unison.
“You can see I’m busy. I’ve got all this painting to do.” She pressed on, hoping they would take the hint and leave her in peace.
“Is she called Sally Ann?” It was one of the others who spoke.
Marnie nodded in reply. She was sure they would tire of this and go away.
“Lady, can we have a drink of water?” another of them called out.
Marnie pictured chilled tumblers of sparkling iced mineral water. The children thought she had not heard.
“La-a-a–” the chorus broke out in a raucous three-part harmony. Before they could reach the end of the word, Marnie looked up sharply and they stopped in mid-flow.
“If you give us a drink of water, we’ll go away.”
One of the children interpreted her hesitation as a sign that she was thinking what to give them. “Or orange,” he said tentatively.
“I haven't got any.” Marnie could feel her resolve weakening.
They looked at her incredulously. “They have on the telly,” said one.
“And orange,” said another.
“But I haven't.” Marnie hoped she sounded adamant.
“In the tap in the kitchen,” insisted one that had not spoken so far.
Marnie sighed and relented. It was a relief to climb down from the roof and give her knees a rest. In the galley, she found some paper cups with the name Sally Ferries on the side. She filled three of them with water, it was all she had. Even so, she felt she was carrying the canal tradition of hospitality quite far enough.
She passed the drinks up through the railings. To her surprise, one of the children thanked her. The other two took them quickly, as if they thought she might change her mind, and began drinking in hasty gulps. The first one to finish looked down at Marnie.
“Why can’t we come for a ride on your boat?”
“I told you. I'm not going anywhere. I've got painting to do.” She turned and went back to the boat. By the time she had climbed onto the roof, the children were running off down the road. With renewed energy, she had the last section undercoated in twenty minutes. In the dappled sunlight through the trees, she could imagine how the fresh cream paint would look when it was finished.
“I say, hallo there!”
Marnie recognised the imperious voice of the neighbour who had called her a water gypsy. She braced herself for the onslaught and looked round.
“I thought you might like something to drink.” The old lady was holding a tall glass filled with a pale cloudy liquid and chunks of ice, complete with beads of condensation trickling down the side.
Marnie was almost speechless. Could it be a mirage? “That's very kind of you.” She climbed down from the roof and reached up to take the glass through the railings.
“It's my home-made lemonade. I always make it when the weather gets warm. I see you've been out here all morning.”
“It's delicious. It had a cold sharp tang and Marnie felt the ice cubes touching her lips. “… wonderful.”
“My mother and grandmother used to make it every summer when I was a girl in Hampshire before the war.”
“I'm sorry, I don't know your name. I'm Marnie, Marnie Walker.”
“Everyone calls me Mrs Jolly. At my age one becomes accustomed to it.”
Marnie took another sip. “There were some children here asking for a drink a while ago and all I had was tap-water from the galley.”
“I know, I saw them. That's what gave me the idea. My mother always said that any act of kindness is its own reward, but I thought you could do with something a little better.” She smiled down at Marnie. “You've been working hard.”
“Yes and there's a lot more still to be done. I’m sure the boat’s grown since I started.”
“Your curtains have made a big difference already. It's nice to see her looking better. She wasn't always so shabby. The people before you never lifted a finger. Just used it to entertain their friends and show off.”
These people were presumably Beth and Paul. Marnie opted for diplomacy and sipped the lemonade without comment.
“Are you doing all the work yourself?”
“Yes, just trying to smarten her up a bit.”
“I can remember when it was owned by a naval officer. He used to stay on the boat during the week and go home at weekends. He painted her navy blue and maroon. She was smart in those days.”
“How long ago was that?”
Mrs Jolly calculated. “Must be about ten years. I think he retired seven or eight years ago. That's when he sold it to the other people, the ones who let it get scruffy.”
Marnie nearly choked, but drank to the bottom of the glass and returned it through the railings. “That was marvellous. You must come and have something with me on Sally Ann when I've made a bit more progress.”
“That would be nice. Well, I mustn't hold up the good work. Good-bye, my dear. Such a pity about the weather forecast.”
The weather forecast? Marnie was wondering about this when her eye fell on something bright among the shrubs. There were three paper cups, bearing the name: Sally Ferries. She picked them up with a sigh and turned back to the boat. Surveying her handiwork, she was pleased with what she saw.
It looked pretty good, apart from the large splash of pigeon droppings in the middle of the roof.
The decision to go for a first solo run that evening was a pure impulse. By seven o'clock Marnie wanted to eat but had no desire to cook. She wandered up to the café perched over the canal and sat on the balc
ony, giving her a view along the cut. Over an omelette and salad, she watched the boats go by and tried to remember how life had been before Sally Ann.
Waterbuses in dark maroon and cream contrasted with brightly-coloured pleasure boats with scalloped awnings. Old Peter’s boat approached, running as straight as if on rails hidden under the water, as he lined up to enter the tunnel that led to London Zoo and Camden Lock. Lights began to appear along the banks. Little Venice glowed, inviting and festive, and Marnie felt refreshed. She decided there and then to take Sally Ann for a run.
Back on board, Marnie went through the checklist she had learnt from Jane.
Disconnect lead to mains electricity.
Start engine.
No.
Switch on fuel pump.
Right.
Then start engine.
Bang, bang, clatter, clatter.
Check puffs of grey smoke (no idea why).
Good (presumably).
Cast off and push away from the bank.
Pull gear lever into forward position.
Press down accelerator.
And go!
Marnie knew better than to expect a surge of power, a thrust of acceleration, or the wind in her hair. Sally Ann hardly dug holes in the water. But when they slipped out into the channel, the engine thumping and the water bubbling behind her, it felt good. It felt like freedom.
Gary did not look his normal carefree self as he hopped from his boat onto the towpath that evening to nip round to the other side of the pool. With hands thrust in his pockets he turned under the first bridge and quickened his pace along the arm for Paddington Basin. Here the atmosphere changed. This part of the canal existed in almost permanent gloom, crossed by bridges in dreary succession.
It was around fifty yards from the pool to the mooring where Old Peter kept his boat and caravan. Gary stopped abruptly. Before him was a gap where the grey-green boat should have been lying. Cursing under his breath, he looked up and down the cut and turned to face the caravan. It was no bigger than a garden shed and reminded Gary of a tea cosy. The bodywork had dulled to a matt shade of cream. The Perspex windows had faded to an opaque tinge of yellow. So this was the private residence of a man with valuable possessions? No way.
