Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  As sidekick left the bar, Gravel reached for his mobile.

  It was hard to tell how long she had slept, but she woke to find Dolly curled up at the foot of the bed, purring. Something was different. Marnie propped herself up on one elbow. Through the window she could see more trees than she remembered. Behind her in the saloon there was a rustling sound as if the page of a newspaper had been turned.

  “Hallo?”

  “You're awake. Good.” Jack Hadley came in and perched on the corner of the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “At the risk of sounding like an old film script …” Her voice was croaky. “Where am I?”

  “We bow-hauled you here, more shade.” He got up and went into the galley, returning with a glass of water. “You'll have to drink quite a lot of this.”

  Marnie sipped. “I'm not sure what happened. I feel rather foolish. Did I pass out?”

  Jack laid cool fingers on her forehead. “A touch of the sun, I think. We came upon Sally Ann tied up at the stern, the bow drifting across the canal. We made her fast and wondered why there was no-one on board except the cat. Then we saw your hat lying under a tree.”

  “So you organised a search party.”

  “Found you lying in the undergrowth.”

  “I’m sorry to give you all this trouble.”

  “No trouble. And it looks as if you're on the mend. Do you feel like eating anything?”

  “Not really. I'll just drink this.”

  “Okay. If you need anything, we're just along here. You'll not be disturbed. Contrary to popular belief, we don't sit up all night singing boat shanties and chewing tobacco.”

  “I'm glad to hear it. Thanks for all you've done.”

  “Don't mention it.” He turned to go.

  A sudden memory. “When you found me back there, was anyone else around?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “You didn't hear anything … people … music?”

  “No.”

  “There were buildings, though, I didn't imagine that?”

  “An old farm, abandoned, I think.”

  “You’re sure there were no people?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Stalker returned to his flat that evening, bursting with frustration. He had finally found the boat he was searching for, but it seemed to have become part of a fleet and was now travelling in convoy with two others. Worse, the other boats seemed to be crewed by a gang of heavies.

  On the map the canal passed by the village in a lonely spot sheltered by trees. It was ideal for his purpose. But there was just a field track leading to a farm at the bottom of a hill. Worse, when he tried to follow it, he found it was as busy as Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour. All the people going up and down the track were in period costume. It was like a film set.

  In the village high street banners announced a village fête, celebrating the two-hundredth anniversary of the canal, built in 1793. Stalker skirted round the main track and made it down to the water some way along the cut. There he had caught sight of his prey, nestling against the bank in line with the two other boats a hundred yards further up the cut. What now? He would have to bide his time … again.

  26

  Glebe Farm

  When Marnie woke on Sunday morning she still felt slightly spaced out. The air in the cabin was fresh and cool. Someone had partly closed the windows, leaving a gap for ventilation. She rose cautiously, slid open the window opposite the bed and leaned out.

  It was a golden morning. Water and sky merged into one, and the boats seemed to hover in the air. Marnie showered and put on a new sweatshirt and jeans. While the kettle boiled she walked a short way along the bank, feeling fragile, as if convalescing after an illness.

  At breakfast on the stern deck under the parasol, Marnie studied the cruising guide and discovered a village a short distance to the left on higher ground, linking up with the derelict farm buildings she had seen the previous day. She was studying the guide when Jack Hadley appeared. He accepted her invitation aboard, but declined breakfast.

  His thick crop of white hair gave Jack a leonine appearance and contrasted with his deep tan. Marnie had Indian friends who were paler than Jack Hadley. He reminded her of old paintings of seadogs, an impression compounded by the dark trousers and striped collarless shirt. She had designer friends who were less stylish than Jack Hadley.

  He indicated the cruising guide. “So, already planning your getaway?”

  “My getaway, yes. I'll just take it gently today, maybe do some sketching.”

  Jack looked up at the sky. “We’re in for another fine day, a real scorcher.”

  “And I'll be wearing a sun hat. What about you? What plans for Captain and Mate?”

  “Slowly making our way round to Banbury. There’s a big rally there in a couple of weeks.”

  “Are you the star turn?”

  There was a gleam in his eye. “One of them, perhaps. There’ll be quite a gathering.”

  “You seem to have captured the public’s attention for the waterways.”

  Jack laughed. “That’s not quite true. I may have helped a little, but there were many others before I came along: Tom Rolt, Charles Hadfield and of course, the Idle Women.”

  “Idle Women?” Marnie repeated. The concept of being a woman and being idle was an odd combination in her experience.

  “They were volunteers like the Land Army Girls, only they worked on the boats while the men were away serving.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Oh, I could tell you some stories about them, but I don’t want to tire you out, and I must get along. If you’re interested, try and get their books. A good read.”

  He stood up. Marnie rose carefully.

  “Thanks again for yesterday.”

  “You take it gently now.”

  Jack held out a hand. Marnie took it but reached forward and kissed him on the cheek. He stepped onto the towpath, grinning.

  “See you again some time. Go safely, Marnie.”

  He went back to his boats, walking briskly like a young man.

  That Sunday morning Stalker returned to the village, determined to catch up with Marnie. He parked a short distance from the open five-barred gate and walked quickly down the field track. Finding a secluded spot with good views, he pulled out his binoculars and began scanning the countryside.

  His search only revealed tantalising glimpses of the canal, reflections of light off the water. Then he saw it. A smudge of grey smoke in the distance. The flotilla was on the move. The thin sound of a steam whistle reached his ears like a taunt. He hastily focused and picked up the tail of a boat a second before it was swallowed by rows of trees. Was that Sally Ann? He guessed it was.

  From memory he knew the next contact with the canal by road was at a lonely pub. The boats might almost be there by now, but it was his last chance for miles.

  Marnie decided on a lazy day. It was late morning before she even stirred from under the parasol where she had spent an enjoyable couple of hours reading. Captain and Mate were long gone. The sound of the farewell whistle had hung in the air as the old boats slipped away, leaving a tall plume of smoke and the whiff of steam in their wake. Rested and revived, Marnie picked up her sun hat and set off through the trees.

  The spinney extended perhaps fifty yards back from the canal, and she followed a clear path that might have been in use since the coming of the waterway. Today the farm buildings were deserted. There was no music, no people in ancient costumes. She wandered among barns and cottages, saddened to see them so dilapidated. The house was handsome, well-proportioned, double-fronted, with stone mullions and steep-pitched roof of blue slate. Gardens had become jungles of impenetrable weeds. The place had stories to tell, but now there was no-one to listen.

  Marnie went in search of the village. Between the house and a small stone barn she found a track and followed it up the hill to a gate on the road. Turning right towards the church, she passed houses and a school set
back in its playground. Opposite the church stood a pub and outside it was a shiny red phone box.

  Marnie dialled her answerphone.

  “Hi! It's me.” Beth did not sound as bouncy as usual. “Well, it looks as if we'll be coming back in September. Paul's department is having to make savings, and if he wants to keep his job he has to return for the new academic year. So that's that. What about you? Have you gone home yet or are you still gallivanting about on Sally? I expect you've got bored with it by now. You never were one for the outdoor life. Give us a ring when you can. Bye!”

  The next message was Steve.

  “Hallo, Marnie. Haven’t spoken for a while. I wondered if you knew about Paul's department. They have to save four staff and their research budget’s been cut by ten per cent. I don't know what Paul’s going to do, but it’s not looking good here at present. I hope things are okay with you. Be nice to hear from you some time.”

  The next voice was unmistakable.

  “Hallo, my dear! I hope you get this message. I'm not very good with these gadgets. Anyway, your visitors haven’t been back, and I hope that means no-one will be using your electricity from now on. I've made a sign and I'm going to put it up as soon as I see someone who’ll let me onto the towpath. It says: Mooring of N/B Sally Ann, Strictly Private. That should make it clear to all. Hope you don't mind. Have a nice time, dear. Good-bye.”

  Marnie rang Mrs Jolly back, but got no reply. She left the stuffy confines of the phone box, crossed the road and bought milk and a newspaper at the village shop. It was time for lunch.

  The pub was at least as old as the derelict farm, spacious, cool and airy with dark beams and a broad inglenook. It was only just gone noon and Marnie was alone in the bar. She took in the traditional decor of horse brasses, harness and old prints. It was a cliché, but comfortable and welcoming.

  “Good morning, or rather good afternoon.” The landlord's voice startled Marnie.

  “Hallo.” Marnie glanced at her watch. “Yes, afternoon, just. I was admiring the bar.”

  “I sometimes think we ought to change it, but to be honest, I'm not sure what else we'd do. Anyway, the customers like it. It's what they expect. What can I get you?”

  While she waited for a Stilton ploughman's and glass of red wine, Marnie read a notice pinned to a beam. It depicted men and women in old-fashioned clothes, with a horse-drawn narrowboat in the background. The Knightly St John summer fête, held on the last Saturday in June, commemorated the bi-centenary of the canal. Prizes would be given for the best costumes. Mystery solved. Marnie learnt that the fête was held in the grounds of Glebe Farm.

  The landlord arrived in the bar with cutlery, paper napkin and wine. Marnie indicated the notice.

  “Glebe Farm, that’s the ruined place down by the canal, isn't it?”

  “That’s the one. Almost everyone in the village dressed up, including the vicar. Mind you, he didn’t take much persuading.”

  “You had lovely weather for it.”

  “Too hot for some. ’Course, I'm not complaining. I ran the bar and we've never sold so much drink.” He chuckled and went out.

  Too hot for some, Marnie thought.

  27

  Idle Woman

  The weather stayed bright and warm over the weekend and on Monday Marnie opted again to take life gently. She cruised only a few miles before stopping to sketch an old boat-horse stable by a canalside pub. This trip is becoming a waterway version of the Marnie Pub Crawl, she thought.

  At noon she was sitting in the pub garden with a glass of cider, waiting for food to be brought out, poring over the map and cruising guide. Ahead she would face two long tunnels at Blisworth and Braunston. After that came the choice of several routes, all of them potentially interesting.

  “Toasted tuna sandwich and salad!”

  A motherly woman of jovial appearance was weaving between the tables. She put the plate down in front of Marnie.

  “Are you going to do the BCN?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “They say there are more miles of canal in Birmingham than Venice.” The woman snorted. “I know where I'd rather be.”

  Marnie ran a finger over the map. “I was wondering about the Shropshire Union.”

  “You could do a lot worse.”

  Marnie ate the sandwich and traced the canal route via the Shropshire Union and on to Wales, thinking of Anne’s boating holiday with her family.

  When she was getting up to leave, the woman came back to clear the table.

  “Made up your mind, then?”

  “Maybe the Shropshire Union.”

  “Very nice, the Shroppie.” The woman looked up at the sky. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  Gary arranged to meet Sheena for lunch on his boat that Monday. He decided not to go with his first choice of pork pies and pickled onions and had opted instead for ham sandwiches and tomatoes. They were more Sheena’s style.

  They sat in the saloon with all the windows open. Sheena removed a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her little finger and took a sip of orange juice.

  “Did you ever do history at school, Gary?”

  “Course I did. Everyone does history … 1066 … 1666 … 1966.”

  She pondered. “What happened in 1666?”

  “Great Fire o’ London.”

  “Oh yeah. You must’ve been great for anything that happened in something sixty-six.”

  Gary grinned. “Won the school prize for that – the Clickety-Click Prize for History.”

  “So what was in 1966, then? Was that the year they invented bingo?”

  Gary looked pained. “England won the World Cup.”

  “So you did do modern history?”

  “That was sort of extra-curricular.”

  Sheena pursued her theme. “Did you ever study Marx?”

  “Nope … nor Spencer.”

  “Gary!”

  “Sorry, love. What’s Marx got to do with anything?”

  “He said you’re either with us or against us. At least, I think it was him.”

  Gary was beginning to wonder where this was all leading. “So?”

  “Are you with me, Gary?”

  “Ah, one of your trick questions. Try this one. If I said you had a lovely body, would you hold it against me?” He laughed.

  Sheena rolled her eyes. “That’s an old one.”

  “The old ones are the best ones.”

  “In your case, Gary, they’re the only ones.”

  “Oh, come on, darlin’, what’s up?”

  Sheena put down her sandwich and looked him in the eye. “I keep getting the impression you’re only half here. Your mind keeps wandering – probably takes after your hands – but even so, it would be nice to have all your attention when we’re together.”

  “Sorry, darlin’.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Gary hesitated before replying. This could be tricky. “I’m a bit worried about something.”

  “About what?”

  He frowned. “You won’t like this.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m worried … about Marnie.”

  “You’re right.”

  Gary looked relieved. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “No, you’re right … I don’t like it.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How is it, then? And this’d better be good.”

  Gary lowered his eyes. “The bloke with the gravelly voice has got someone following her.”

  “So?”

  “I think he might want to … take her out.”

  “You’re not telling me you’re jealous?”

  Gary looked up. “I didn’t mean that sort of ‘take her out’.”

  Sheena’s turn to frown. She picked up her glass and took a sip. No wonder Gary seemed preoccupied, she thought. She tried not to reveal how scared she felt. She did not want him to know she had tried to make contact with Gravel. She also did not tell him she had had a message to meet Gravel
after work the next day.

  Stalker was watching and waiting. The convoy of boats was passing though countryside where the road seldom met the canal. The only aspect of his pursuit that made life easier was the smoke from the funnel. It was a useful marker.

  It was Monday afternoon before he realised something was wrong. He had worked out a master plan, lying in wait in the village of Stoke Bruerne. He figured that he could blend in with the tourists and not be noticed. It was a good plan, in theory. The drawback was that a Monday outside the main holiday season did not produce enough visitors.

  Stalker was sitting on a bench about twenty yards from the locks, eating an ice cream, when the wail of the steam whistle announced the coming of the convoy. Within seconds, a small army swarmed over the lock. The air was filled with the sound of paddle gear turning. They had scarcely arrived when the far gates swung open to admit the working pair.

  From nowhere a small crowd had formed to enjoy the spectacle. Stalker got to his feet and walked as casually as he could to stand at the back of the onlookers. He wandered onto the bridge where a handful of spectators were looking down. Unlike them, he crossed to the opposite side. His heart sank. There were two other boats waiting to use the lock. Neither of them was Sally Ann. Neither was crewed by a woman. Stalker strained his eyes to look into the distance. Nothing.

  Where was she? Could she have come on ahead? Stalker left the bridge to check out the long line of boats moored beyond the museum. He strode out, walking the entire length of the towpath through the village. It took several minutes to reach the end of the line.

  Suddenly the air grew chilly. He stopped abruptly. Ahead was the mouth of a tunnel. The guide book told him it was about two miles long. He swore loudly and slammed the book to the ground.

  Marnie pondered the pub lady’s valediction, enjoy it while you can, as she pushed off from the side. No more than a few fluffy cumulus floated across the sky, and Marnie kept the sunhat firmly in place.