Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  They took chairs, pads and pencils and stepped onto the bank in warm sunlight. Suddenly, Marnie stopped. “Hold on!” She dived back into the boat and emerged a moment later carrying two wide-brimmed sun hats. “That one should fit you all right.”

  Anne hesitated and put it on, smiling for the first time, turning her head to strike a pose like a fashion model. A warbling sound emanated from somewhere in the boat. Marnie hopped back on board and reappeared pressing the mobile phone to her ear. After a brief conversation she disconnected.

  “That was a friend in Little Venice. She’s an artist. You’d like her.”

  “Everything all right? Oh sorry. I shouldn’t ask questions.”

  “That’s okay. It appears someone’s trying to get in touch with me, seems he’s concerned Sally Ann might have an engine problem.”

  “That’s worrying.”

  “Not really. Another neighbour – a nice old guy – sorted it out for me. It was nothing serious.”

  “So will you let this man know that it’s sorted?”

  Marnie shook her head. “No need. If anything goes wrong with old Sally, I’ll get it fixed on the way.”

  “But if he’s concerned about you and asking after you …”

  “He probably just mentioned it to Jane in passing. It’s fine.”

  For the next hour they sat sketching, Marnie concentrating on the bridge and lock, Anne working on the lock-keeper's house at the edge of the woods, Dolly lying under Anne's chair, flicking her tail.

  After a while, Marnie spoke over her shoulder. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “An older brother. You?”

  “An older sister.”

  “And it's her boat?”

  “Yes. She's in America. Her husband's on sabbatical at a university there.”

  “Are you married?”

  A pause. “I was, but … it didn't work out.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean –”

  “That's all right.”

  They went on sketching. Marnie turned to ask how the work was going, but Anne spoke first.

  “Do you have children?”

  “No. I would have quite liked to, but there’s not much likelihood at the moment.”

  Anne bit her lip. “I keep saying the wrong thing.”

  “Don't worry. I grew up in a secure family and had a happy childhood. There are always compensations.”

  Marnie waited, but there was no reply. She heard Anne’s pencil drop. There was a sound like a sigh. Marnie glanced round and saw Anne bent double in her chair, her back shuddering. She heard a sob, the breath vibrating in Anne’s throat. Tears were falling onto the dusty ground. Marnie leapt up and in one movement was kneeling beside her on the towpath, an arm round her thin shoulders.

  They left the chairs where they were, and Marnie led Anne back to the boat. In the saloon she sat her down, put a box of tissues on the table and lit the gas under the kettle. The girl sat for a few moments, head in hands, then pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. It was a loud blow in the multi-megaton range, causing the cat to sit up and take notice.

  Marnie stared at Anne. “Blimey! That was seven point nine on the Richter scale.”

  Anne spluttered into the tissue and laughed through her tears. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry …”

  “Any more blasts like that and I'll be advertising for a new ship’s cat.”

  Anne forced a smile as she wiped her eyes.

  “I don't know why I'm making tea.” Marnie thought of Mrs Jolly. “Do you want any?”

  “Not really … thank you.”

  “Nor do I.” She leaned back against the workbench. “Look, Anne, I don't want to pry, I really don't, but I don't like to see you so upset.”

  Without any preamble, Anne began. “Dad had a good job at the lorry factory but they had to get rid of a lot of people. His redundancy money ran out so mum went back to hairdressing to help out. Then they started having rows. Dad said he didn't want to live off mum's money.” She sniffed and blew her nose again.

  “That explains why your hair’s so well cut.”

  “Yes. Anyway, dad did a bit of van driving for a friend, but the police stopped the van for a check-up or something and they reported him for not having the proper papers. So now he's in trouble and might have to go to court.”

  “And the rucksack?”

  “I thought if I could get a job somewhere it would help. It would be one less to feed.”

  “How old are you, Anne?”

  “Fifteen.”

  She put the box of tissues on the table. As she did so, she dislodged the sketchpads and they slipped over the edge. Marnie reached forward and caught them. She opened the pad that Anne had been using and glanced at the drawing. Unintentionally, she gave a small exclamation of surprise. Anne looked up at her.

  “You've done a lot. Do you always work this fast?” Anne shrugged. Marnie went on. “I see what you mean about the trees. Yours are really good.”

  “My dad showed me how to do them. He's good at drawing, good at making things.”

  “I'd say you have a real talent, Anne.”

  “That’s what my teacher said. She wanted me to go to art school.”

  Marnie noticed the past tense. “To do what?”

  “Not sure …”

  Marnie laughed. “Beware! You could end up like me!”

  “Is that what you are, an artist?”

  “I’m an interior designer. I did a foundation course at the local college and then went to art school.”

  “You must have been really old after all that.”

  Marnie grinned. “Ancient. I was twenty-one when I started work.”

  Anne frowned. “My parents couldn't keep me for all that time.”

  “They wouldn't have to. You could get a grant or a loan.”

  Anne became thoughtful and for a few seconds a determined look came into her eyes. Then her anguish returned. “I wish I knew what to …”

  “Play to your strengths, Anne. That’s how you’ll find your way. Build on what you’re good at. Focus on that and don’t let anyone persuade you otherwise.”

  The girl stared at Marnie. “Yes.”

  “Work out what you want to do, in broad-brush terms –”

  “Like going to art school?”

  Marnie nodded. “For example. Then take one day at a time and give it your best shot.”

  “Yes … yes … When you put it like that, what else could I do?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “It makes sense. But I suppose even then I might not get a job at the end of it all.”

  Marnie reached for her bag, took out her wallet and produced a business card.

  “Here, take this, just in case. You never know. I might be able to advise you. You can ring me any time you want.”

  Anne read the card. “It’s a nice design.”

  “Thanks. Actually, I designed it for the company. It's what we call the house style.”

  “I'll keep it safe.” Anne zipped it into a side pocket on her rucksack.

  “Do you feel like finishing off your sketch?”

  Outside on the towpath, they donned sun hats and resumed sketching, side by side.

  “Is it a good art department at your school?”

  “We do interesting things, go to exhibitions. Also, they talk to us like grown-ups, like you do.”

  In that moment, Marnie sensed that Anne was starting the journey back to her world. The thought crossed her mind that at some point she too would take the same step, even though it seemed a long way off just then.

  “What do you think will happen to my dad?” Anne spoke calmly.

  “Nothing much. He'll probably just be told he mustn't do it again, I expect.”

  Anne stopped drawing and turned in her seat. “Would you say you were a drop-out?”

  Marnie laughed. “I'm just taking a break. I was starting to feel drained. Creative work can be like that sometimes. My … marital problems di
dn’t make things any easier. Sally Ann came along just when I was offered the chance to have a change of scene.”

  “And you do want to go back?”

  “Of course. What else would I do? That's where I belong.”

  “And what do you think will happen to me?”

  “Oh, I think that's fairly clear. You’ve got time to change your mind, but I can imagine you doing A levels and going to art school, as I did.”

  “What about now, this morning?”

  Marnie looked at her watch. “It's nearly noon. Is there any particular teacher you get on with very well?”

  “There's Mrs Robertson, head of the art department.”

  “I think you should talk to her, tell her how you felt this morning.”

  Anne’s eyes widened. “About running away?”

  “You could tell her you needed time to think things over. You’ll find your own words.”

  “What about mum and dad? What should I tell them?”

  “Well, I think it’s probably best that they hear about your worries from you rather than from anyone else. Best to talk about them, no secrets.”

  Marnie got up and went back to the boat, leaving Anne to think things over. She returned with a camera.

  “Why don't you go and take some photos of the bridge and the lock for my collection while I make us an early lunch?”

  While Anne was lining up her first shot, Marnie shredded a lettuce and put a baguette in the oven. A knob of butter and two cloves of pressed garlic were melting in the frying pan while she completed the salad with slices of cucumber, diced red pepper and a French dressing. She drained a tin of prawns and tipped them into the pan, stirring the mixture gently together.

  Outside, Anne was kneeling to take a shot under the bridge. Marnie turned off the flame under the pan and quickly laid the table. She called Anne through the window, cracked four eggs into a mixing bowl, added milk, ground black pepper and sea salt and beat them lightly with a fork. She looked out as she worked, but Anne was no longer in view.

  “I hope you're going to like this,” she said as Anne came through into the saloon.

  “It smells wonderful! And it looks like a feast.”

  Marnie passed her a glass of apple juice. “No, just a simple meal. It's what I’d call peasant food.” Marnie turned on the gas under the pan and added another knob of butter. While it heated, she took the bread from the oven and put it in the basket on the table.

  Anne watched with interest. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No, just have a seat. This’ll be ready in a minute or so.”

  “What peasants eat this kind of food?” Anne was staring at the table.

  “It’s a Spanish recipe.” Marnie poured the eggs into the pan with the prawns and garlic and stirred them with a wooden spatula. In a trice she had produced a scrambled mixture that she divided onto their plates. “It’s called revuelto de gambas. Eat it while it's hot.”

  Anne needed no further encouragement. While they ate, they talked about photography, angles and apertures, structures and shapes. Afterwards they ate grapes on the stern deck in the sunshine, comparing their sketches and raising a hand at passing boats.

  Anne looked thoughtful. “This is strange. I never imagined today would turn out like this. It’s as if I’ve … stepped out of my world.”

  “You have, but just for a little while. It’s the same for me. I’ve left mine behind in London.”

  “It’s weird, Marnie. It feels as if I've known you a long time.”

  It was the first time Anne had addressed her by name.

  “Where is your school exactly?”

  “In town, near the centre.”

  “Near the canal?”

  “Not far.”

  “Would you like to drive us there, or at least as near as we can get on Sally?”

  A pause. “Yes. I'm ready to go back now.”

  The search had produced no results. Gravel’s associate had discovered that following a canal through and out of London by car was no easy matter. Maps failed to tell the whole story. The fact was, canals followed devious routes as if they had a mind of their own. He had had to leave the car and traipse for miles along the towpath. By the third day he had seen enough of the cut to last him forever.

  At lunchtime that day he bought a sandwich and a Coke in Leighton Buzzard and, after strolling along the line of moored boats, sat on a low wall beside the towpath, keeping watch.

  Suddenly, he spotted her, a woman with dark hair, alone at the tiller, and the boat was blue. He leapt to his feet, leaving the half-eaten sandwich on the wall, and moved slowly to avoid attracting attention, waiting for the bows to come into view. The boat’s name slid into his line of vision. Dolores. Damn! In the same moment a child emerged beside the woman. False alarm.

  This was a stupid job, he thought. You’d think it would be child’s play, a boat travelling at walking pace on a single strip of water. But he was beginning to wonder if this could be the wrong strip. Maybe she had gone south to the Thames after all. Maybe she knew more about boating than anyone realised.

  The stalker returned to his place on the wall to find two sparrows finishing his lunch. Cursing, he decided to change vantage point and moved to take up position on the bridge. It could make him conspicuous but it was near a bend and would give him a better view in both directions. One boat had passed while he was turning onto the bridge. There was no name at the stern, but he knew it was not the boat he wanted. There was a woman on deck, but a girl was steering, and they were wearing similar sun hats. Mother and daughter, no doubt. Also the colour was wrong. This one had some dark blue paintwork, but the roof and centre bands were cream. And there was a cat. Definitely not a solitary woman, definitely not Sally Ann.

  After passing through the lock, it took them less than half an hour to reach the town centre with Anne at the tiller. Dolly sat up on the hatch, having the inevitable wash. They glided into town, cautiously taking a series of bends, passed under a bridge and found a place to pull in at the end of the line of moorings.

  “I can walk it easily from here.” Anne picked up her rucksack and gave Dolly a final stroke.

  “You'll be all right?”

  “I'm fine. I'll be in time for afternoon lessons. It's double art after lunch.”

  “Good. Here, take these.” She gave Anne one of the pads and some pencils. “Well, good-bye, Anne with an ‘e’, and good luck. Perhaps we'll meet again some day.” She kissed Anne on the cheek and watched her walk off. The girl turned and waved before she stepped from the path.

  Marnie went inside to check that everything was secure, ready for the next part of the journey. Turning to go back out, something caught her eye on the pin-board in the galley: a tiny pencil drawing of Sally Ann, moored by the towpath against a background of trees. It must have been executed at great speed but it was perfect in detail, with the dark shape of a cat sitting on the roof.

  Smiling, Marnie cast off and pointed Sally Ann out into the channel.

  23

  Captain and Mate.

  Gary had drawn a blank with Jane. Despite his subtle – he hoped – way of bringing Marnie into the conversation, Jane had not so much as nibbled at the bait. Sheena was sitting opposite him in a small Italian restaurant tucked away in a side street off Little Venice. He had to make an effort to concentrate. She was chatting about another assistant in the chemist’s shop who was always making things up, dreaming of doing impossible things.

  “Are you paying attention, Gary?”

  “Sure.”

  “Only you’ve got that glazed expression.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m interested. Go on.”

  So she went on, and Gary slipped back to wondering where all this Old Peter business was going. And where was Marnie going? Where the hell was she?

  “Anyway, so she said she was planning her next holiday on the moon.”

  “Right.”

  “Or was it Mars?”

  “Could be.”

/>   “Only the moon gets booked up so early these days, doesn’t it … Gary?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  When Sheena brought her hand down hard on the table, Gary jumped so much he staggered back and fell over his chair. Red in the face and squirming with embarrassment, he scrambled to his feet, righted the chair and attempted to sit with as much dignity as he could muster, all the while feigning a coughing spasm. A waiter rushed to his side and quickly poured him a glass of water. With Gary reassuring him that everything was fine, the waiter withdrew, rolling his eyes at the other guests who were mostly trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

  Gary wheezed at Sheena under his breath. “Jesus! What did you do that for?”

  She was unrepentant, indignant. “You weren’t paying attention. You were miles away.”

  He took a deep breath. “Look, Sheena, I’m sorry. It’s just … I’ve got a lot of worries on my mind, big worries.”

  “It’s not still this Old Whatsit thing, is it?”

  Gary’s eyes shifted from side to side as if he expected Gravel and Sidekick to jump up at any moment. “Yeah.” His voice was barely audible.

  Sheena sighed. “Gary, if you’re going to have your wicked way with me, the least you can do is humour me while I prattle on about my apparently insignificant and uninteresting life. After abandoning me all week –”

  “Darlin’, I had a lotta work on!”

  “I said, after abandoning me all week, the least you could do is give me some of your valuable attention when we’re together. Going out is supposed to get you away from your worries, refresh your spirits or whatever.”

  “That’s what everybody’s doing these days.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That Marnie’s doing the same, getting away from it all. That’s why I can’t trace her.”

  “Why do you want to trace this other woman?” Sheena invested the last words with heavy meaning. “Why are you going on about this … Marnie, when you’re supposed to be out with me?”

  “You know why, darlin’. It’s business, nothing personal.”

  “So she’s fat and ugly, got bandy legs and a squint, has she?”

  “No, she’s all right …ordinary looking.” A flash of inspiration. “Must be about ten years older than you. How old are you, actually?”