Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  Marnie had been waiting for this moment; her first lock. The black and white balance beams loomed up ahead, one gate standing open, beckoning her in. She motored in and climbed up the wall ladder to close the lock. The boat rose smoothly, held steady by Marnie with a rope round a bollard, and she was sad there was no-one around to witness her competence. The procedure had taken just under fifteen minutes. Before setting off, Marnie wrote in the log book her time of arrival and departure. Very soon she would have another entry, something altogether unexpected.

  The engine gave only a faint puff of smoke as they left the lock behind them. Marnie felt a new confidence, conscious that she was young and strong and glad to be alive.

  She smiled at the sky, at the passing gardens and canal banks. She smiled at the sight of Sally Ann's long freshly-painted roof extending before her, with its poles and gang-plank. She looked down into the interior and admired her new curtains, carpet tiles and bedspread. She smiled at the cat stretching on the bed, yawning.

  The cat!

  “Mind your wash!”

  The shout came from a moored boat and it startled Marnie. She leapt to the accelerator and reduced speed at once, turning to raise a hand in apology. Seeing her embarrassment, the man changed his protest to a smile and waved back, shaking his head.

  The cat was now sitting up on the bed, washing. Marnie was assailed by questions, all of them seeming to lead to only one answer. She would have to turn back.

  She could not steal someone's pet, even if it was not her fault. The initial shock changed to surprise and gave way to calmer reflection. Above all, she could not bear the idea of going back, at least not on day one after such a good start. There had to be another way.

  Marnie chewed her lower lip, trying to think calmly, while the cat was oblivious to the problems it was causing. They were still only in west London. It ought to be possible to find a tube station somewhere nearby. Marnie could take the cat back to Kensal Green, assuming there was a station there. She looked at the stowaway. No chance. It would hardly sit quietly on her lap and allow itself to be taken on the tube. She had no carrying box and no lead.

  Suddenly, she had inspiration. Didn't Jane say that she and Derek lived in west London? Marnie dived into the cabin and grabbed her filofax and mobile.

  “Hallo, Rutherford.”

  Marnie told Jane about the stowaway. “Look, I was wondering … do you live in this part of London?”

  A pause. “You want me to collect the cat and take it back?”

  “Jane, I really hate to bother you but –”

  “No problem. But, are you sure it's the best thing to do?”

  “Well, I don't want to abduct it and I can’t just let it go.”

  Another pause. Jane was thinking. “I wonder where it came from. Of course, cats do often wander.”

  “Do they? I don't know much about them.”

  “Some do, especially in the summer, if they want a change of scene.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “All sorts of reasons: unsettled after moving house, noisy new baby, wanderlust, who knows? The thing is, you don't choose them, they choose you.”

  “You think it might be looking for a new home?”

  “Possibly. I'll gladly take it back, if you want me to, but I suspect it’ll carry on wandering. Does it show any sign of anxiety?”

  “It looks like it owns the place.”

  “That’s normal for cats.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not being much help to you, am I, Marnie?”

  “Well, I just thought it would want to go home, but if it’s going free range ...”

  “Look, here’s a plan. I'll be at home for the next hour or so. If you decide you want me to take it back, give me a ring and I'll come and collect it. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume the cat’s taken command of the boat.”

  Gary passed under the first bridge to enter the dingy arm that led to Paddington Basin. Prepared to find a gap where the old man’s boat should be, he was relieved to see it at its mooring. Relief turned to elation when Old Peter crossed his path, walking from the caravan to the boat. It was the perfect chance encounter. The old man would never know that Gary was deliberately coming to find him. Gary composed his features to register surprise.

  “Oh, hi.” No-one ever addressed Old Peter by name.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “About the same.” The old man continued on his way.

  Gary held his ground. “I, er, see you’ve got a girlfriend these days.”

  Old Peter stopped and turned to face Gary, his expression serious. He said nothing. Gary spoke again.

  “I came by the other day and you were chatting with that new woman, Marnie, I think she’s called … Sally Ann.”

  “Oh?”

  “Quite a looker, that one.”

  The old man pulled out a bunch of keys. Gary was determined not to be deflected.

  “That boat of hers could do with a proper overhaul before she goes off on her trip. She’s going away for the summer, you know.”

  “Good.”

  “Except it’s got a lot that needs sorting out before she goes, could have big trouble with that boat. I said I’d see to it before she went.” Old Peter looked thoughtful. Gary continued. “I’m not sure when she’s actually going, but I think she wants to go soon. Perhaps she mentioned it.”

  “What trouble?”

  “Oh, this and that. Boat’s been neglected for years. The engine’s dodgy for a start.” There was no reaction. Gary persisted. “Like I said, I don’t know when she’s wanting to go.”

  “You could ask her.” Old Peter pushed a key into the lock and turned it. Pulling open the doors, he went down into the boat without another word.

  Gary remained on the path for a few seconds, deflated, before setting off at a brisk pace back to Garrow and Sheena, unaware that he was being observed from behind a lace porthole curtain on the grey-green boat.

  Old Peter filled the kettle and lit the gas stove, watching Gary’s departure, noting that he was going back the way he had come. While he attended to his ablutions, he wondered what Gary was doing and why he had come. It had been no chance meeting. So why was he asking questions about Marnie?

  Gary was devious like a fox, but lacked that animal’s intelligence. He did not have the sense to cover his own tracks. Something was motivating him, and the old man had a fair idea what it was.

  Marnie turned Jane’s comments over and over in her mind until she reached the next lock. … cats often wander … The journey was barely one day old and already she had picked up a passenger, … you don't choose them … a stowaway, … they choose you … another mouth to feed.

  She pulled over to make the boat secure at the bank and reached down for the windlass. At that moment Marnie took a decision. She would take on her first crew member and give it half a tin of tuna for breakfast. But in that same moment the crew member took its own decision. It slipped past her and neatly jumped onto the towpath. Typical! Marnie thought. I offer you hospitality and you jump ship without so much as a ‘thanks for the ride’.

  The cat walked off up the towpath without a backward glance and disappeared into the bushes. Was that it? Marnie wondered if she would ever see it again. Would it leave her to continue its walkabout? Curiously, she found herself disappointed at the idea.

  “Come on, cat!” she called out. “I've got some lovely tuna for you.”

  Marnie worked the lock with no further sighting of the cat. Feeling warmer after her exertions in the sunshine, she slipped down to the cabin to grab a T-shirt. A sound reached her from the saloon. She looked in to find the cat had taken up station by the fridge and was purring. The amber eyes of the stowaway transfixed her.

  Marnie wondered what cat meal times were. She reached for the tin opener and the cat meowed. Sally Ann's water pump growled.

  “Okay, okay! Don’t rush me. I’ve got a lot to learn, all right?”<
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  Oh God, she thought, this is how eccentrics begin. I talk to the boat and the cat and they both answer me back. She selected two saucers from the cupboard, put food in one and milk in the other. For herself, she put out bread and cheese with a glass of cider, but first picked up the mobile and redialled Jane’s number.

  “Hi, it’s Marnie.”

  Before she could say more, Jane interrupted.

  “Right, listen up. Cats usually get two meals a day, one in the morning, the other at tea-time. Don’t overdo the milk, but make sure there’s always some fresh water in a bowl. Are you getting this?”

  Marnie grabbed the logbook and began rapid scribbling. “Yes. Are you taking psychic lessons from my sister by any chance, Jane?”

  “Pay attention. I’d advise you to get some crunchy food as a basic, good for the teeth and gums, easy to store, too. What have you fed it so far?”

  “Skipjack tuna steak, half a tin.”

  “You’ve got a friend for life. It’ll think it’s in cat heaven. You could give it something like that every other day.”

  Marnie heard the cat purring in the background.

  “What about …?”

  “Yes. You’ll need a litter tray.”

  “Where on earth am I –”

  “I’ve thought about that. Get an engine oil drip tray at the next chandlery you pass.”

  “That’s a good idea. What about –”

  “You can use sand or even dig up some soil. It’ll be okay.”

  Marnie finished scribbling. “It doesn’t seem too difficult. I was getting worried, not knowing what to do.”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s all about training.”

  “But this is all new to me. I’ve never trained a cat before.”

  “Not what I meant, Marnie. You’re very intelligent. I expect the cat will have you trained in no time at all.”

  19

  Dolly

  Marnie surprised even herself. By the next day she was feeling like a veteran of the boating life. The world went by at a gentle pace, locks came and went, the engine thumped on steadily. Her only doubts concerned the cat, though it too had adapted to a new rhythm and seemed contented with its lot.

  She could not go on calling it ‘the cat’ all the time, and this led to another thought. What sex was it? If it was male, did they have undesirable habits or make dreadful smells? If it was female, would it suddenly produce a litter in a cupboard? Would the boat be overrun by tiny fur-covered shapes, doing unutterable things in every corner? Perhaps that was why it was wandering, looking for somewhere to have kittens. Oh gawd …

  First priority was to give it a name, assuming she could work out what sex it was. If not, she would have to come up with something neutral like Puss or Mog. She remembered that Brigitte Bardot used to call her duck Canard and her dog Chien. So would this one be Chat … or Chatte? Open to misunderstandings. She sighed. It was becoming a habit.

  So, a name. Inspiration. She would adopt one from a boat they passed. It would give her something to do while chugging out of London, like the games she used to play with her sister on long car journeys in their childhood. A line of moored boats appeared.

  September Dawn … Windrush … Desiree … Bulrush … Castle Rose … Hector.

  Tricky. Dawn … Hector? Back to the sex thing again. She put the exercise to one side to negotiate a lock. Waiting in the boat for the chamber to fill, she decided to check the visitor. As she approached, it gave her a speculative look, as if it knew she was up to something. Marnie picked it up and it made no protest. She cradled it in her arms and began stroking its tummy. It purred while Marnie ran her fingers up and down, trying to part the fur in the lower area. She rummaged around while the cat lay happily back with its eyelids drooping. Marnie could not find anything protruding.

  “Oh well,” she muttered. “I suppose that eliminates Hector.”

  Underway again, the canal now offered more open views, with lakes and fields visible between the trees and bushes lining the banks. At the edge of the water stood a heron, immobile as a garden ornament, the colour of damp concrete.

  Ahead, another line of boats presented her with a new opportunity to find a name.

  The Minstrel … Wanderbug … Camelot … Dun-Ernin … Old Harry … Escape-aid

  By late afternoon it was time for another decision. Marnie had been on her feet since early morning with only a sandwich and the odd cup of coffee to keep her going. If she stopped for a meal now, she could go on as long as she wanted, rather than find herself too tired to prepare food at the end of the day. There was a line of boats moored up ahead. She would take a break after passing them.

  Mephisto … Liberty Belle … Kingfisher … Genevieve … Ramblin’ Rose … Joylen

  Nothing very promising in that lot, Marnie thought, looking at the cat and trying to imagine it (or probably her) as a Genevieve. No, not really. Rose, Rosie, Rosa? Perhaps not, even though it had a certain boatish ring to it. The cat rubbed its flank against her legs as she stood at the workbench in the galley.

  Marnie had devised a simple food policy for the journey based on easy recipes, ingredients as fresh as possible, with tins for backup. While an egg boiled on the hob and a small baguette warmed in the oven, she combined half a ripe avocado, chopped onion, mayonnaise and seasoning. She laid the table and fed the cat. The chopped hard-boiled egg joined the other ingredients to form a pale green mixture. On the table she placed a small side salad of lettuce, tomato and sliced red pepper with a vinaigrette dressing and a sprinkling of herbs and opened a bottle of dry white Orvieto that had been cooling all day in the fridge.

  A feast in minutes. It looked wonderful, and the interior of the boat smelled good enough to eat. Sitting down was bliss. Marnie found some Monteverdi on the radio, and the cat purred along while washing herself in the middle of the floor.

  After the meal Marnie cut a small bunch of green grapes to eat on deck and set off on the next leg, scrutinising every boat she passed for a suitable cat name.

  Still Waters … Willow … Argonaut … Badger … Laurel … Straight and Narrow

  After another couple of locks and no more inspiration, Marnie resolved to take the very next name and adopt it, come what may. Ahead, she saw a boat approaching and called down into the cabin.

  “Okay, cat, this is it!”

  The boat drew nearer, the family on board waved and it passed by in a bright livery of green, yellow and red. Pigling Bland. Ah ... Never mind. Another boat was waiting up ahead to enter a lock. Marnie crossed her fingers as she drew nearer. Dolores

  Marnie groaned inwardly as she pulled alongside. How could she call the cat Dolores … Doll? The steerer, a curvaceous woman in bulging pink sweatshirt and blue jeans, smiled over at Marnie.

  “Shall we go in breasted up?”

  “Er …” Marnie became aware of a more than ample bosom and tried to avert her gaze. “… sorry?”

  “Go into the chamber together, side by side?” She pointed ahead. “My husband and the kids will work the lock.”

  “Right, yes, of course.” Marnie tried to sound confident as if travelling breasted up was something she did every day.

  They eased forward close together and entered the chamber while a man and two teenagers tackled the gates and paddles with expert skill.

  “Travelling alone?”

  “Yes ... apart from a cat.”

  “So I see. What's he called?”

  “Er, well, actually … Oh, can you see her?”

  The woman gestured towards the windows. “Yes. There's a black face looking out.”

  “Excuse me.” Marnie stepped down inside, went through to the galley and found the cat standing on the workbench.

  “Hey, puss! What are you doing up there? That’s not allowed.”

  The cat blinked at her but did not move. Through the window Marnie could see the name emblazoned on the side of the other boat: Dolores. She picked up the cat, put her on the director's chair and returned to the deck.
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  “Nice cat. What did you say its name was?”

  There was the name staring at her. “Dol … er, well, it's … Dolly, actually.” Marnie sounded doubtful.

  The Amazon on Dolores smiled again. “Very nice. Dolly. Yes, that's nice. I’m sometimes called Dolly by my husband.”

  “Really?” Marnie had visions of inflatable dolls. Time for a change of subject. “Nice boat you’ve got there.”

  “We’re pleased with it. Daft name, though. Who ever heard of a canal boat called Dolores?”

  Marnie agreed. “It is a bit exotic and voluptuous, I suppose. Perhaps it's named after somebody.”

  “It is …” The woman smiled. “… me.”

  It had been a busy day for Gary, taking over for a waterbus driver who had phoned in sick. He waited for Sheena as usual that Saturday evening at the tube station, even though she now knew the way to his boat. She was the kind of girl you went to meet; she did not come to you. Life was treating him well, with good money coming in and a great girlfriend.

  The only smudge on the horizon was Gravel. And where was he these days? One minute he’s lurking behind every shadow, the next he’s disappeared.

  Sheena arrived for the evening carrying an overnight bag. He loved meeting her there, seeing her come up the steps from the underground. She was a 24-carat blonde bombshell.

  On Garrow, Sheena dropped her bag on the bed in the sleeping cabin and went to the bathroom to check her make-up. Leaving the door open, she called out.

  “Where are we going tonight, Gary? What’s the plan?”

  “I thought we might go to the place over the tunnel again. That all right?”

  At times like this he felt the lack of a car. It was the downside of living on a boat in the middle of London. A night out usually meant somewhere within walking distance, unless he wanted to bump up the cost of the evening by taxi fares.

  “Great. Tell you what, it’ll be my treat.”

  Gary could not believe his ears. It was the first step on the downward slope. No up-market girl ever expected to pay for anything.

  “Did you hear me, Gary? I’m treating you tonight, if you see what I mean.”