by Leo McNeir
She reached for the diary and consulted the things-to-do list. By now most items were crossed through. On the other hand, the Sally Ann list was as long as ever. There and then, Marnie decided to take the afternoon off.
The phone rang again. Marnie hesitated for a moment, then got up and left. Someone else could answer it.
Earlier that morning Gary had a call from the BW office in Little Venice. The manager wanted to talk about a job. Once Gary had clarified that it was nothing to do with shifting any obstructions in the water, he agreed to look in as soon as he could find a ‘window’ in his busy schedule. He disconnected, picked up his cigarette and returned to the horse racing pages of the Daily Mirror.
Try as he might, he could not concentrate on the chances of Apprentice Lad winning the 2.30 at Haydock. His thoughts kept wandering to Gravel and Old Peter, who were constantly on his mind these days. He had run out of ideas about anything to do with the old man and his supposed valuables. The only remote prospect seemed to be Marnie.
The problem was the same as for Old Peter. How could he find a way of just happening to pass by and fall into conversation with her?
Hi. I was wondering if you’d like to come for coffee or a drink some time.
No good. If she didn’t fancy him and refused, she’d be on her guard every time they met.
Didn’t I see you travelling along with Old Peter the other day?
That would only work if she was chatty. In his experience that was unlikely.
That’s funny, I haven’t seen Old Peter for a while. Do you know him?
Improbable, and how would he get to that point?
Somehow he had to find a way of getting into conversation with Marnie and gradually steering her towards the subject of Old Peter. But how? He tilted back in the chair, closed his eyes and pondered, thinking back to the first time he had seen Marnie when she had literally jumped into his arms.
He had the beginnings of an idea and was just letting it develop in his mind when the mobile rang.
“It’s me, Sheena.”
“Hi, darlin’! I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Of course. Who else?”
She laughed coyly. He felt himself suddenly want very much to see her again and soon. All thoughts of Marnie were immediately, if only temporarily, put out of his mind.
Marnie slotted the Rover into a parking space and fed as much change as she had into the meter. She was determined not to get a ticket and noted the time available. It was a short walk to the mooring and, as the gate clanged shut behind her, Marnie felt she was entering another world.
Putting the key in the lock, she found a piece of paper tucked into the steel doors. Inside the cabin she drew back the curtains, put the kettle on and read the message. She read it a second time and frowned.
BITCH
TIME YOU THOUGHT ABOUT IT
LET ME KNOW
There was a smudge in the bottom right-hand corner that might have been a letter Q. Was someone threatening her? What could it mean? Marnie pinned the note on the cork board in the galley and considered the options.
Steve? No. He was unhappy with her, but would not resort to extreme measures. His main act of violence would be a long sulk. Anyway, he would not know about her spending time on the boat, and the writing looked too primitive.
Perhaps the message had been intended for Beth? Unlikely. She had her annoying little ways, but if anyone was tempted to feed Beth to the piranhas, it would be Marnie herself.
There was something odd about the note that she could not quite fathom. Shaking her head, she put it out of her mind and concentrated on the boat.
After a good rub down with sandpaper, she gave the roof its first top coat. At the halfway point she sat back on her heels and rubbed her forehead at the moment when a boat emerged from the tunnel and passed slowly by. Old Peter raised his hat and smiled. Marnie raised her paintbrush.
An hour or so later, on her way back to the car, aching in the usual places, Marnie bumped into Gary.
“Hallo,” he said. “Did you get my note?”
“Your note?”
“I left you a note in the door. Do we need to have a little chat?”
Marnie was astonished. Here was Gary in broad daylight, apparently talking about a threatening letter in the most casual tone. She had a vision of a 1920's gangster holding a Tommy gun: Sorry lady, this ain't personal, it's business. Then, she suddenly realised what it was about the note that had struck her as odd: that Q, or whatever it was in the corner. The anonymous threatening letter had been signed.
“Was your note personal or business?”
Gary thought for a moment. “Business, I suppose. I put one on all the boats.”
This was not what Marnie expected. “Tell me about your note. I don't get it.”
“You ought to have it done. God knows when the other people last did it.”
“Did what exactly?”
“Had the hull bitched.”
“Bitched?”
“Yeah. Old boat like that, you ought to take her out of the water at least every two years and get the hull painted with bitch. You know, bitumastic.” He stumbled over the word, as if unaccustomed to using so many syllables at one go.
Enlightenment. “Ah, but what was that squiggle in the corner? It looked a bit like a letter Q?”
“Q?” Gary looked blank. “No, not Q. It’s a G. That's me. G for Gary.” He laughed. “I may be a lot of things, but I'm certainly not a Q!”
Marnie felt foolish but laughed with Gary, who was trying to think of a way of getting round to Old Peter.
“You ought to think about the hull, Marnie. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you it’s got to be done. Ask your mate, Old Peter. He’ll tell you it’s important.”
“My mate?”
“Yeah. The old boy down the side arm. You know him, don’t you?”
“Why is it important, about the hull?”
Gary shrugged. “The other day when I went past I noticed you were looking a bit weedy. Your bottom could definitely do with a good rub down and blacking.”
Marnie kept a straight face. It was a struggle. “We’ll talk about it some time.” She looked at her watch and started walking.
“Talking of Old Peter, Marnie, I was wondering –”
“Sorry, gotta go.” She quickened her pace. “Time, tide and parking meters wait for no man … or woman.”
She left Gary standing.
Back at the flat, Marnie went into the kitchen and began assembling ingredients on the workbench. Reaching for her favourite dog-eared cookery book, she turned on the oven and rolled up her sleeves. In a short while she was sliding baking trays into place. While the smell of biscuits emanated from the cooker, she was busy in the spare bedroom, now the supply dump for the Great Journey.
Marnie had bought twelve plastic crates from the local garage to stow in the cratch lockers. Into these she piled stores for the summer: tins of food, soap, towels, toilet rolls, matches, tissues, washing powder, even sketchbooks and a box of pencils. The list seemed endless. All her casual clothes were neatly stacked on the bed.
On the floor stood a few other essentials, comprising four cases of wine: two red, one white, one rosé. A smaller box included Pimm’s, gin and Bacardi. It looked like being a wet summer.
14
Gift
By nine o’clock on Saturday morning, Marnie was already aching. She forced herself to keep going, rubbing down ready for the next round of top-coating, spurred on by the knowledge that the end of her labours was in sight.
It was another two hours before she applied the last brush-load. She climbed down to the towpath, stretched her back and admired her handiwork. Sally Ann was becoming a new boat. Back on board, she cleaned herself up and changed into fresh clothes. A tupperware box stood on the workbench. Marnie picked it up before leaving the boat to dry in the warm air.
She took a short walk round the pool of Little Venice and turned into the
side arm.
Gary enjoyed his day out and was confident he would enjoy his evening still more. While Marnie was working steadily to transform the appearance of Sally Ann, he was spending Saturday taking a top-of-the-range boat down to Docklands for a couple who had given up their prized Little Venice mooring for a slot in an exclusive marina outside their new home.
During the journey he had plenty of time to think about Gravel, whom he had not seen for a few days, Old Peter and … Marnie. He was sure she was the key to the OP mystery, or at least a way of getting closer to the old man. By the time he had reached the Thames he had a workable plan all figured out. He would go round to see Marnie and offer to check the boat over thoroughly before she began her journey. That would give him the chance to get her to relax and chat with him.
He decided to go and see her as soon as he returned to Little Venice, before he had Gravel and his chum breathing down his neck again.
The walk round to the Paddington Arm helped to ease Marnie’s tired muscles. She found the grey-green boat at its mooring and tapped on the centre doors. When one of them opened outwards, she met the impassive gaze of the old man and wondered fleetingly if she had committed a faux pas. She had read somewhere that in the Romany world no man was ever permitted inside a caravan with a woman other than his wife or immediate family. Perhaps in the world of boat people it was considered inappropriate for a woman to call on a man, even one of venerable age who had shown her kindness.
“Hallo. Remember me … Marnie … Marnie Walker?”
Old Peter murmured his customary, uh-huh, and a warmth came into his expression. He pushed open the second door and came out to join her on the bank.
“Sorry just to turn up like this. I wanted to see you before I set off … on my journey.”
“Oh.”
“I’m planning to leave next weekend.”
“So you are ready.”
“Yes, well, almost. I’ve got to put another top-coat on the roof, but apart from that …”
“A good solid boat.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Fill the tanks – water and diesel – and she will take you …” He made a gesture with his hand. “… wherever you desire.”
“I will.”
Marnie reached into her shoulder bag. “Oh, I … I brought you something.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted to thank you for coming to the rescue the other night in the park when I broke down.”
“There is no need. No traveller ever leaves another boatman in difficulty. It is the way.”
“Yes, I know. Even so …” She pulled out a tupperware box. “It’s just a small thank-you gift. I, er … well, I made these for you.”
Marnie held out the box. When Old Peter made no move to take it, she added, “Half of it is shortbread, the other half, flapjacks. Of course, I realise you may not like that sort of thing. I couldn’t think how else to thank you.‘
Old Peter took the box carefully from her slim fingers with his strong hands. “You know what they say …” He enunciated every word clearly. “Sweet tooth, and an eye for the ladies.”
He was smiling, and his old eyes seemed a little more moist than before.
Marnie smiled back. “You like that kind of thing?”
“I like that kind of thing, both kinds of thing.” His voice faded away.
He must have been over eighty and he was flirting with her. On impulse, Marnie stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek, surprised at the smoothness of his face. “There. Now you have both.”
Gary sat on the Docklands Light Railway train and watched the world go past the window. It went past slowly. He wondered if the DLR was the railway equivalent of a canal.
He was running – if that was the word – late. After delivering the boat to its new mooring, he had been hailed from another craft by someone he had worked with in the past. Invited on board for a quick chat, it was not long before a bottle was opened and the chat turned into a discussion about business opportunities.
Sitting on the train, he forced himself not to look at his watch every two minutes. He estimated that by the time he got home – assuming he ever reached civilisation again – he should just have time to fit in everything he had to do. His reckoning proved to be optimistic. A long wait on the Bakerloo Line for a tube back to Little Venice all but scuppered his plans, and he barely had time to shower and change on Garrow before his date.
Waiting by the tube station, he fretted that his talk with Marnie would have to keep for another day. Then Sheena walked up the steps. One look at her shining blonde hair, the pink glossed lips parting in a smile and the clinging short dress, and all thoughts of Marnie floated out of his mind.
Marnie was surprised at the interior of Old Peter’s boat, as surprised as she had been when he invited her in. He gestured her to a chair in the saloon with a single word, “Tea?”
“Thanks.”
She wanted to ask what she should call him and what was the name of his boat, but sensed that questioning would feel like an intrusion. While Old Peter attended to matters in the galley, Marnie looked at her surroundings. The saloon was lined in tongue-and-groove pine that seemed to have been lime-washed rather than varnished. Muted cream and light green were the other colours, with natural rush matting on the floor. The overall impression was old-fashioned but soothing. It was cool and restful, completely uncluttered, neat and orderly.
Tea arrived on a tray in a Brown Betty teapot. The crockery – all matching from the same set – was white with a floral design in green and pink. Its style was dated, but in perfect condition. The best china. He had set out the shortbread and flapjacks on a larger plate from the same series. No cast-offs here.
The tea was strong, and Marnie accepted one finger of her shortbread. Old Peter took a flapjack and nodded as he tasted it, like a gourmet sampling a delicacy.
“Good … good,” he murmured.
“Glad you like it.”
“You have done much work on the boat.”
“I’ve done almost everything I can, I think.”
“You have prepared yourself?”
“Myself? I’m ready to go, yes, ready for a change.”
“It is always a good idea to be ready for change.”
Marnie smiled. “Well, I hope I’ll cope with whatever comes along.”
“Yes. You will cope.”
“You think so?”
“What else can you do?”
It was a good point. She would be out in the country, on her own, responsible for running and maintaining the boat. This was no time to be having doubts.
“You said that what I find on my travels may not be what I expect. I think that’s right. All I know is, it will be a change from my normal life.”
The old man paused, looking into his teacup. “Everything has changed in my life.”
“On the cut?”
“On the cut … everywhere else.”
“Do you regret that?”
“No. There is no point regretting. You just … move on to the next lock.”
“I find that a comforting thought.”
“There is nowhere else to go.”
15
Paint
Sunday morning, and Marnie could not believe she had set the alarm for seven. Arriving home the previous evening, she had found five messages on the answerphone, friends asking why she had become a recluse. Being Saturday evening, they had all been out, so she left messages, explaining she had been tied up with a project and was going away for an extended cruise. After nibbling crackers and cheese she had showered and heaved her weary limbs into bed.
Now, amazingly, when she turned off the alarm she felt pretty good. She pushed back the duvet and went straight to open the curtains. Dry and bright, ideal weather for painting. One last effort, one last coat, and Sally Ann would be ready.
Marnie bolted down breakfast, grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
Sunday morning, and it was warm under th
e duvet on Garrow. Gary was having a lie-in with Sheena, untroubled by thoughts of Gravel, Marnie or Old Peter’s hidden valuables. He had promised her a day out on the boat, and twitching the curtain over the porthole with one finger, he could see clear sky. A perfect day.
He stretched and looked at Sheena’s face on the pillow. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted. Seconds later she woke up, saw him, smiled.
“Steady, you’ll spoil my make-up,” she murmured softly.
“You’re not wearing any make-up.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.”
Sheena closed her eyes and began breathing slowly and rhythmically. In the pale light that was seeping into the cabin Gary could see her clothes carefully folded on the shelf at the foot of the bed. Definitely up-market, this girl. Not one of those who throws everything on the floor and wakes up next day with smeared lipstick and mascara on the pillow. She stirred, turning onto her back, clasping both hands above her head.
“When will I see you again, Gary?”
“When you open your eyes?”
She giggled. “After today, idiot.” Her voice was sleepy.
“I told you, I’ve got this job on. It’ll keep me out of town till the end of the week. We’ll be working all hours, not worth coming back into London.”
“What is it, this job?”
“I told you.”
“I know. Tell me again. I don’t remember. It had a funny name.”
“It’s a fit-out.”
“Who are you fitting up?”
“We’re not fitting anyone up. It’s a fit-out, on a boat. I’m helping a mate to finish it off, then he’ll be selling it.”
