by Leo McNeir
Marnie located the grey-green boat, huddled beside a low bridge of black iron, with an elderly caravan tucked in the corner against a tall fence, opposite an office block car park. It was too narrow to tie up alongside, so she pulled in further down behind a shabby cabin cruiser, long retired from the hire trade. The old man’s boat in contrast had simple lines, clean and purposeful. Marnie knocked on the door by the stern deck. The hatch slid open without a squeak. Old Peter looked out.
Marnie smiled. “Good evening. I've come to return your fuel can. You left it last night.”
“I did.” The old man climbed out, surprisingly nimble for his age and stocky build. “You are thinking I forgot it.”
“Yes.” Marnie had considered no other possibility.
“You said you had no can. I left it in case you should be needing it again.” His voice had a strange intonation and he pronounced every word clearly and slowly.
“I didn't realise.” Marnie was touched by this act of kindness from a stranger. “That was very good of you.”
The old man stood quietly on the deck, as if waiting for her to make the next move. Marnie put the can on the ground.
“Oh, and er, my name’s Marnie, Marnie Walker.”
Normally she would have offered a hand, but on this occasion she held back as the old man remained immobile. He said nothing, as if registering her name in his mind.
“Actually, I do have a spare can,” she continued. “I found it in a cupboard, I mean a locker. Thank you for lending me this one.”
Old Peter stepped onto the path, picked up the can and tucked it behind the door. He walked along to the bow and sat down on the side of the foredeck. Marnie followed, unsure if the conversation was at an end. The old man shifted to make room for her to sit beside him.
“You have done a lot to your boat,” he said impassively.
“Yes. I'm glad to take the weight off my feet.”
“The people who had it before did nothing.”
“I know. That’s my sister. It's still her boat, actually. I'm just looking after it while they're away.”
The old man turned to look at her. His eyes were faded brown under grey brows and his skin was tanned like a countryman. “You do all this, and it is not your boat.”
“Well, yes. I started to make one or two improvements and I never realised how much there was to do.”
“There is always much to do on an old boat.”
“I’m trying to get it right, but it’s one thing after another. And I want to take it away for a journey.”
“Make sure the windows don’t leak,” the old man said. “The rain will spoil your new curtains.” Marnie jerked her head round. He seemed not to notice. “The topsides will be protected by your paint, but it is hard work. You will need at least two top coats.”
“Yes. The trouble is, I've got to sort out all the problems with the engine. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever get away.”
The old man looked thoughtful. “Problems with the engine?”
“Gary thinks it might need a complete overhaul.”
“There is nothing wrong with the engine.”
“But what about the water in the fuel filter?” Marnie felt pleased at using the right word.
“Fill your tank. You will reduce the condensation.”
“But other things could go wrong,” Marnie protested.
Old Peter sat with his inscrutable expression for some time. “Listers are good engines. They turn cement mixers on every building site in Britain.”
It seemed a strange recommendation to Marnie. “That’s good?”
“They endure the three worst things ever invented for engines.”
“What are they?”
He held up a thumb. “Dust.” His index finger. “No maintenance.” The next finger. “Irishmen.”
Marnie felt a conflict of emotions at this announcement, ranging from relief at his faith in the engine, to amusement at the turn of phrase, via slight indignation at his prejudice. “So you don't think it needs a complete overhaul?”
“If it is running, leave it alone. An oil change would do no harm. Have you a manual for the engine?”
“Yes.”
“Read it and do what it says. Maintenance. How far are you going on your journey?”
“I'm not sure. I just thought I'd set off and see how far I got.”
“You have no plan?”
“I just want to get away.”
“Get away,” he repeated quietly. “What are you looking for?”
“I need a change. I'm an interior designer and I'm feeling stale. That’s all.”
“You design things.” The old man seemed interested.
“Yes. I design the interiors of buildings, not the actual structures.”
“You like doing that?”
“Usually, when I’m not feeling … jaded. It's what I’m trained for.”
“And you like structures, as well?”
“Very much. I work within the structures, if you like. Buildings and structures are an important part of my work, part of my life.” It surprised Marnie to be speaking like this with a virtual stranger.
Old Peter sat staring ahead. Marnie could not tell if he was thinking or had lost interest in the conversation. She thought it may be time to go, but just sitting there on the side of the boat with the old man felt comfortable.
“You like canals?” he said, suddenly.
“Yes, yes, I do. I like the structures, of course, and the designs on some of the boats interest me. I’m attracted by the textures … brick, stone, iron … and water, naturally.” The old man nodded and Marnie thought she detected a half-smile. “Everything’s so solid.” This time, she was sure there was a smile.
“Not everything.” Was there a twinkle in Old Peter’s eye? “The walls up to the tunnel at your end are not very solid. They have no proper foundations.”
Marnie pictured the walls at the mouth of the tunnel. They had stood there, as high as a house, for nearly two centuries. How could they have no proper foundations? And how could the old man know this?
“Are they dangerous?”
He shrugged. “They need attention, more than your engine does.”
“That’s reassuring, I think.”
“Your boat is built for long journeys.”
“That's good. I want to get away and find some space.”
“You think you can get away on the canals?”
“I just need a change. The boat gives me that opportunity.”
“Yes. What you see will be different, but it may not be what you are looking for, unless you are lucky.”
“I'm not really looking for anything in particular. I just need to be away.”
Old Peter nodded. “We all have to be away sometime.”
Sheena left Gary and Garrow on Sunday after a hasty breakfast with promises of more times together. Gary would ring her soon. He put on his overalls ready for a day in the engine room of a trip boat. It needed extensive repairs: replacement of fuel injector nozzles, the exhaust manifold and a full service, the kind of casual cash-in-hand arrangement that Gary liked. Strangely, although his Saturday night with Sheena had been all he could have wished, his thoughts kept returning to Marnie and Old Peter. Could she be the key to finding out more about the old man and his valuables?
The work on the engine demanded full attention, and it was not until he emerged from the bowels of the trip boat that he returned to the everyday world. Pocketing the rewards of his labours, Gary walked quickly back to Garrow where a hot shower awaited him. Lathering himself all over, he made up his mind to pay a call on Old Peter and tried to work out how to broach the subject of his … treasure.
So, I hear you’ve got something very valuable hidden away under the mattress …
Perhaps a little too direct?
My partners are looking for someone to invest heavily in the commodities market …
The image of a geriatric caravan with peeling paintwork flashed across his mind. T
ry again.
I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to loaning me a large amount of …
Forget it.
For Chrissake, Pete, where’s your bloody money? How much have you got?
This was getting ridiculous. He rubbed his palm over the bathroom mirror to make a hole in the condensation and stared at his face.
“All right, you’re so bloody clever, you think of something!” He wagged a finger at himself. “Come on, what do I say?”
But it was no use. He simply could not find the right words to question the old boy. Not the sort of person you could casually interrogate. Gravel would have to understand that. But that was another conversation for which the right words did not exist. Gary padded along to the sleeping cabin, thumped the pillows into shape and flicked the duvet straight for the first time that day. As he dressed, he tried to imagine explaining to Gravel why he could not find out about the treasure.
You see, it’s like this. I don’t think he’s got anything valuable. Nobody does.
That wouldn’t work. Gravel would just send him back like before. Maybe slightly rearranged.
I’ve spoken to him. He’s not got anything of value. Any fool can work that out.
Better rephrase that.
If he had anything valuable he’d enjoy a higher standard of living.
He’d already tried that.
I beat the old guy to a pulp, roasted him over a slow fire and pulled out his fingernails. Before he snuffed it, he confessed he had nothing.
Get real, Gary. You’re not cut out for this tough-guy lark. Perhaps an appeal to reason.
You’ve just got to accept that there’s no way …
No. That was no use. He could not argue like that. He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.
Ha! Gary laughed out loud at his joke then stopped suddenly. It was definitely not funny. He remembered the crate splitting open, the slimy mess of body parts slithering onto the canalside. Gravel would not be inclined to see his point of view. Both Gary and Old Peter could well end up bouncing around on stumps. Nothing else for it, Gary would just have to go round to chat to the old man and see what came up.
He ran the razor over his jaw, went light on the aftershave, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and headed off to the Paddington Arm. He had two plans. If OP was outside the boat, he would stop for a chat as if in passing.
Hi. Haven’t seen you for a while. How yer keeping?
If OP was on the boat or in the caravan, he would vary the approach, tap on the door.
Hi. Just passing by and realised I hadn’t seen you for a while. How yer keeping?
What else could he do? The old guy never went to a pub, never went anywhere except up and down on his boat. Perhaps if Gary came up with a special offer on red diesel from an unspecified source? Worth a try. It would do for starters. He was feeling better already.
His mood improved still further when he rounded the corner from the pool and caught his first sight of the old man. OP was walking along towards the front of his boat and sitting on the bow. Just right for a casual encounter. But what he saw next stopped Gary in his tracks. Who was following him along the bank and sitting down beside him? Marnie. What was going on between those two? Gary shrank into the wall to think through the situation.
In one way it would be easier to chat if he saw Marnie with Old Peter. Just being sociable. Against that, he could hardly raise the question of the secret horde with her present. It would give away his interest. It might even set Marnie thinking, and a woman would stand a better chance of getting information out of him than Gary would. With a shiver, he suddenly realised she might already have done so. Why else would an attractive woman like that be spending time with a man older than her own grandfather? He looked out from under the bridge. Their heads were close together in intimate conversation.
Gary needed time to think, needed to know more about Marnie and her links with OP without arousing her suspicions. This was a development he had not foreseen.
Marnie was getting used to arriving home worn out. She went straight to the bathroom and loaded the towels and bed linen from Sally Ann into the washing machine. They smelled of boat.
She pressed the button by the red light on the answerphone. The machine buzzed.
“Hi, it's Steve … wondered how you are. I thought we might talk. Be in touch … if you want to.” Click.
Marnie sighed and frowned. It buzzed again.
“Have you gone into hiding or what?” It was Beth. “You're never in any more. I've been ringing all day. Anyway, I expect you're out having a good time, so that's good. I just wanted to find out how things are. We're okay. The weather's fine. I've met a dishy architect. You'd really like him and he'd like to meet you. If you're still having that sabbatical, why not come over for a few weeks? I'll ring again soon. Oh, yes, one other thing. You won't forget to see the boat's all right, will you? We wouldn't want her to sink! Talk to you soon. Bye!”
Within minutes, Marnie was ready for bed. Her last conscious thought was about stern glands. She was convinced she would dream that Sally Ann had sunk.
12
Transatlantic Call
Monday mornings had never been a problem for Marnie. At least, not in the days when her body functioned without the aid of pain killers and embrocation. She launched herself cautiously into the week without the usual spring in her step, thankful that she could sit at her desk briefing the team. As the days went by, the aches in her joints faded.
The high point of the week came when Willards Brewery announced they were reassessing their business plan, which meant delaying the refurbishment programme until the end of the summer. That made everything easier. Marnie’s only slight anxiety was whether she would remain indispensable. Philip told her she need have no worries and asked about preparations for the Great Journey.
“How do you manage all those locks and things by yourself?”
Good question, Marnie thought. She had never been through a lock by herself. In fact, she could not recall going through a lock at any time.
“It's just a matter of technique,” she said, as casually as she could manage.
By mid-week Marnie had everything under control. On Wednesday evening she paid a flying visit to the mooring and gave Sally Ann a once-over, now a familiar routine. She got home at eight. While she was making a sandwich in the kitchen the phone rang.
“I don't believe it. You're actually there. What happened – did they run out of champagne at the wine bar?”
Hi Beth.”
“Seriously, is everything all right?”
“Yes. Why shouldn't it be?”
“Well, you’re never in when I ring. Are they still working you like a slave at the office?”
“What's new about that?”
“Are you still getting this sabbatical? Are you thinking about coming over here to visit with us?”
Marnie winced. It was always like this. Beth usually took about two weeks to reprogramme her speech patterns to American. Marnie had been waiting for the first signs to creep in. “No, thanks. I've got no plans to come and visit with you at the moment.”
“That's too bad,” said Beth, undeterred or unaware of the subtleties.
“Yes, it's a pity, I'd like to see New York again.”
“Marnie, we're in Boston. You know that.”
“Oh, sorry, by your accent I thought you'd moved to Brooklyn or maybe the Bronx.”
“Okay, okay. But you're really not coming Stateside?”
“No, really, thanks. I'm planning to take a trip on the boat, as I told you.”
“You were serious about that? I thought you were putting me on.”
Marnie took a deep breath. “I'm almost ready to set off. Beth, I've been meaning to tell you, I’ve been doing things to, well, smarten her up a little. I didn't think you'd mind.”
“A designer narrowboat!” Beth remembered just in time not to add ‘yet’ or ‘already’.
“Not exactly. Just one or two touches here
and there.”
“Sure, sure, I mean yes, that's fine. You're not painting roses and castles all over it, are you?”
“Not quite. Listen, are there any special things I need to know about operating locks when I'm out travelling?”
“Well, there is one golden rule. Take along a hunky guy with big muscles. You never know when he might come in handy.” Beth hooted.
“I'll try to remember. Seriously, though, are they hard to operate?”
“It helps if you're a Sumo wrestler. I’m sure you’ll be fine. I'm sorry you aren't coming over, though. Perhaps when you get back from your trip, you'll change your mind?”
“I'm, er, planning a longish trip.”
“I give you one week at most. Sally’s pretty cramped and you like the finer things in life.”
After disconnecting, Marnie sorted through the post. Among the bills and junk mail was a postcard from Jane Rutherford.
Hi, Marnie. We're travelling up the Grand Union in the company of kingfishers and herons. You'll love it. Charming scenery. Very secluded and dreamy. Far from the madding and all that. Decided to extend the trip. Hope your preparations are going well. See you soon, Jane and Derek.
The picture on the card showed two traditional working boats side-by-side in a lock, the crews, men and women, dressed in Victorian costume. The men all seemed to be busy, operating the lock paddles. How would she cope with this?
Before turning in, Marnie settled down with canal charts and cruising guides. Very secluded and dreamy. Far from the madding … But it was only just outside London. She would be cruising the inner reaches of commuter country, not quite the same league as Francis Drake or Vasco da Gama. The guides contained no warnings of the danger of falling off the edge of the world, showed no areas marked Terra Incognita, or badlands infested with dragons.
13
Bitch
It was Friday lunch-time when the reality struck Marnie: there was no turning back. A client rang about a riverside warehouse conversion, an imaginative design that Marnie had produced and handed over to the group. The client asked for the project designer. Marnie was about to confirm that was herself, when he added … Miss Faye Summers. Marnie looked at Faye across the office, a talented young woman whose skills she had nurtured, and transferred the call. After an initial twinge, she felt strangely liberated, like a ghost haunting the office.
