Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  “You won't be able to walk like this.”

  “What else am I going to do, take up residence here?”

  Marnie shook her head slowly. The storm was still raging. She tugged off her sou’wester and made to put it on the old woman's head.

  “No! You keep it on. There's no point in both of us being soaked through. Someone has to be fit to get about.”

  As the younger of the two, the rescuer, Marnie had the idea she should be the one taking the decisions, as she did at work. Now, she could do nothing right. She had the feeling she was in the presence of someone who knew about action.

  “How far away is your boat?”

  “It's just over there.”

  Marnie indicated the rough direction as a huge clap of thunder shook the air. Her companion made no reaction, lying back on her elbows, working things out, with beads of water on her face.

  “It looks as if I’m stuck for the time being.” She sounded impatient.

  Marnie admired her spirit. There was no self-pity, no complaint, except about Marnie, and no apparent fear. Even lying in this rough shelter, spattered with mud, she had an air of dignity. She was undefeated. Marnie leaned towards her.

  The old woman frowned. “What are you doing?”

  Marnie reached round her head, fumbling. “Just a moment.” She opened a flap at the back of the anorak and pulled out a hood. “There. That's better than nothing.”

  The woman blinked at Marnie from under the hood. For a moment it seemed she might complain again. “I'd forgotten about that … other things on my mind. Yes. You’re right, better than nothing.”

  “Are you in much pain?”

  “Better not to think about it.” She spoke quietly. “Let's just concentrate on getting out of this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Iris Winterburn.”

  “Marnie Walker.” She smiled faintly, not wishing to impose on such independence.

  Another flash of lightning. Marnie counted the seconds in her head, as she had done since childhood. She had reached five when the thunder crashed at the same time as Iris Winterburn spoke.

  “I'm sorry. I couldn't hear you … the thunder.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I just said Blitz.”

  “Blitz?”

  “It's the German word for lightning.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Did you teach German, perhaps?”

  “No, I didn't teach German. All my generation knew that word, and a few others.”

  The rain was falling as hard as ever, and Marnie was trying to work out a plan, but there seemed no way of escaping through the storm.

  The old lady read her thoughts. “We seem to be stuck here for a while.”

  “Can I make you more comfortable?”

  “More comfortable! That's a joke.” She sighed and laughed simultaneously. “I don't suppose you have a cigarette?” Marnie shook her head. The old lady looked around, still propped up on her elbows. “It was like this the last time I was here.”

  “When was that?”

  “1944, I think, or forty-five. Of course, that was long after the Blitz. We were bringing coal down from Derbyshire to Rickmansworth. It was that day when the Luftwaffe bombed the railway yards at Wolverton and Rugby.” She smiled a pale smile. “Sorry. You're not interested in an old woman’s stories of the war.”

  “Yes, I am. What happened?”

  “Nothing much. Nothing out of the ordinary. Several of the bombers could not get near their targets … Ack-ack, Spitfires, Hurricanes, you know. So they dropped their bombs where they could. They were falling all over the place. One of the girls thought they’d seen the water and the boats and tried to get us. We were worried they’d breach the banks and wreck the canal.”

  “Weren’t you worried about yourselves?”

  She shrugged and winced. “We were used to it. We just wanted to get our load through.”

  More lightning. Marnie counted to ten before the thunder came.

  “I don't seem to have much luck when I come here,” Iris Winterburn said.

  “Do you believe in luck?” Marnie was beginning to have doubts.

  “You get to believe in all sorts of things when people are constantly trying to drop bombs on your head.”

  A weariness was creeping into the old lady’s voice, and Marnie wished she could get her to shelter. She had a flashback to old war films, with bombers over Britain. She saw the markings on the aircraft, the black and white cross on the fuselage, the swastika on the tailplane. The thunder was rolling again like a wave of bombers. She could see the pilot at one end and the swastika at the other, that strange hooked shape. The image registered in her mind. Yes!

  “Yes what?” said the old lady.

  Marnie was not aware she had spoken out loud. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a few minutes?”

  “Well, I'm hardly planning to run away!”

  “There's something I must do. I'll not be long.”

  Marnie backed out of the bushes. Nearby was the comforting sight of Sally Ann waiting quietly at her mooring, a safe haven herself, if only she could get the old lady on board.

  Stalker pushed himself as deep as he could in among the trees. The rain was bucketing down, thrown about by gusting wind. The noise was unbelievable.

  Peering out to assess the situation, he was amazed to see a boat beyond the lock on the far side of the canal pointing north. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Just as he was looking out, a skinhead emerged briefly from the shed. Stalker ducked quickly back, his mind racing.

  Was that the boat he was pursuing? The colours could be right. Find a lonely spot, Gravel had said. It didn’t come much lonelier than this.

  Marnie climbed aboard Sally Ann and cast off, catching a glimpse of Dolly's face at the window as she ran past. Fleetingly she realised the foolishness of what she was about to do, but put it aside. There was no choice. Like the Idle Women in the war, she just had to get on with it and finish the job.

  The rain was soaking her face in the pelting wind as she reversed Sally towards the bollards by the lock. She left the engine running and ran back down the towpath, slithering on mud and pebbles as she reached the little brick stable. She peered into the gloom inside. It smelt of damp and mice. In the corner something stirred.

  “Is anyone there?” Marnie shouted.

  “Yeah.” It was a young man's voice, rough and ugly. He came forward, a skinhead, a nasty bit of work, his ears thick with rings and on his forehead a tattooed swastika.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Wha’ uvvers?”

  “Your … mates.”

  “Dunno, scarpered.”

  This must have been the one who tried to open the lock paddles. Marnie was not sure if this was a good or a bad sign, but she had not time to care.

  “Come on! I need help!”

  She turned to go. The skinhead did not move.

  “There's an old lady injured in the bushes. She may have broken her ankle. I can't lift her on my own. You've got to help me!”

  He seemed to be sizing her up. The thunder rumbled again. Marnie lunged forward and grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “I haven't got all bloody day! Move yourself!”

  To Marnie’s surprise, he did. They stumbled back up the towpath in the rain. Passing the lock, the skinhead grabbed the windlass and brandished it at Marnie. She thought he was going to hit her.

  “’Ere. You left this.”

  Marnie took it, dropped it on the deck, and cast off. She had no weatherproof clothing that would fit Skinhead, but she grabbed a sou’wester and thrust it onto his shaved head. He grunted a protest but left it in place.

  On the opposite bank Marnie tied up again and was urging Skinhead forward when an enormous peal of thunder stopped them both dead.

  Stalker wished he was anywhere but among those trees, miles from civilisation. Sodden from head to foot, he wondered if the storm was the end of the world.

  He could imagine his quarry sitting snug
and comfortable in her boat with a cup of tea, beyond his reach on the opposite bank. He looked out. The boat was still there. At that moment, an enormous clap of thunder made him jump so hard he nearly lost his balance. He suddenly realised that he was sheltering under a tree … in a thunderstorm.

  One unlucky thunderbolt and he would be a crisp – smoky bacon and mud flavour. He legged it for the shed and was relieved to find it empty.

  Marnie dragged Skinhead through mud and water, fearing for the old lady. She crawled first into the gap in the bushes.

  “Are you all right?”

  Iris Winterburn opened her eyes. “Well, I’m still here.”

  “I’ve brought help.” Marnie reached behind her for Skinhead. “This, er, young man will help me carry you to the boat.”

  The sou’wester had slipped down over his face and, as the ‘young man’ pulled it back, Iris Winterburn beheld her saviour. She saw the swastika tattoo and glanced at Marnie.

  “What sort of boat do you have … a U-boat?”

  Marnie thought it might be tactless to say this was the best she could do. Skinhead looked blank.

  Marnie crawled forward. “Let’s try and get you out of here.”

  The rescuers each put an arm round the old lady’s shoulders and Marnie supported her legs. They shuffled on their knees, inch by inch until they got her out into the rain, and stood up slowly. The incongruous trio made steady progress across the muddy ground. The most awkward manoeuvre was manhandling the injured woman through the cabin doors and down the steps.

  “Don't put me on the bed!” Iris Winterburn barked. “I’ll ruin it and you’ll have nowhere to sleep. Put me on the floor.”

  Marnie's protests were dismissed with a toss of the head, so she pulled a blanket from the locker, while the old lady balanced on one foot, held upright by Skinhead.

  Marnie spread the blanket on top of the bed. “Come on. No nonsense. I can't possibly put you on the floor.”

  They lowered her gently until she lay back with a sigh. Marnie knew what the next step should be.

  “I’ll put the kettle on.” She began tugging off her waterproofs.

  “Good idea.” Iris Winterburn spoke with eyes closed.

  The storm seemed to be passing over, but still the rain was heavy. Marnie was worried about the old lady. They were out of the storm but uncomfortably wet, dripping pools of water, a long way from medical help. While the water heated, Marnie fetched towels and began drying the old lady’s face and hair. She eased off the sodden anorak and folded a large bath towel to make a pillow under her head.

  Iris Winterburn let Marnie ease the boot off the good foot and sat up to watch when she turned her attention to the injured ankle. She had an impish face. Marnie could see she must have been a very pretty child and a striking young woman, with a slightly Roman nose, light blue eyes and small, determined chin.

  Marnie undid the laces and eased the boot open. Her patient looked on impassively.

  “It’s quite swollen. Am I hurting you?”

  “I’ve known worse. I don't think it’s broken, though at my age these things happen easily.”

  Marnie was steadily slipping the boot off when the old lady spoke again. “Aren’t you forgetting your other guest?”

  Marnie had forgotten Skinhead. He had taken off the sou’wester and was waiting by the foot of the bed. His black leather jacket and slashed jeans, made an odd contrast with the Liberty curtains.

  The old lady laughed. “You look like Attila the Hun at a vicarage tea party.”

  Skinhead looked confused. The kettle started whistling and Marnie went to make tea. She heard her visitors talking. Iris Winterburn called out.

  “I suppose you frown on smoking in the cabin?”

  “Yes, normally. I don't mind if you really can’t do without, just this once.”

  “What about alcohol? Do you object to that, too?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “A drop of Scotch might liven up the tea.”

  Marnie poured a dram into one cup and returned with the tea to find Skinhead sitting on the blanket, lighting cigarettes. She sat with them and they drank in silence. The thunder had moved away, but the rain was steady.

  “That’s better.” The old lady gave Marnie the cigarette. “I’ve had enough of that.”

  Marnie ran it under the tap and threw it in the bin. “I’m wondering how we get you to hospital. Where’s the nearest?”

  “Northampton General, I suppose, but it’s a fair distance.”

  “The best bet is to get you to the next village.”

  “I live there.” Skinhead’s voice surprised them.

  The idea that Skinhead lived somewhere, perhaps with a family of real people, struck Marnie as novel.

  Iris Winterburn looked at him. “Is there a doctor in your village?”

  He shook his shaved head.

  Marnie had an idea. “I could get a taxi to take us in to Northampton.” A sudden thought. “Are you staying round here?”

  “Not anywhere in particular. I'm walking the canal path, staying at B-and-Bs. My car’s miles away.”

  Marnie eyed the tiny rucksack on the floor. “You’re travelling very light.”

  “No, no. My friend Rosemary Gwent has my proper rucksack in her car. She found the going a bit too tough, so she’s driven on to the next place south. I was going to meet her there tonight.”

  Marnie took a decision. “I’ll get us underway. Are you warm enough?”

  “I got a car.” Skinhead again.

  “Where is it?” Marnie said.

  “In the village.”

  “Could you get us to the hospital?”

  “Only got two seats.”

  “If it's a van, I could go in the back,” Marnie said, thinking, as long as there’s nothing evil lurking there.

  “Sports car.”

  Marnie had a vision of Attila driving a Lamborghini along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. She was deciding to opt for the taxi when Iris Winterburn spoke.

  “Would I be able to get in your car?”

  Attila grunted. “Yeah. It’s got big doors.”

  “And you could get me to the hospital in it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What sort of car is it?” Marnie asked.

  “Spitfire.”

  “Spitfire?” The old lady looked amused. “Sounds promising.”

  “I used to have one,” Marnie said. “They haven’t made them for years. Is it very old?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Taxed and insured?” A hint of suspicion.

  “Yeah.” No hint of offence.

  The old lady sighed. “I think it’s time we made a move.”

  “You want to go in the Spitfire?” Marnie was incredulous.

  “If you can load me into it.”

  “The doors are quite big,” Marnie conceded.

  “I learnt to put up with a lot during the war. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “If you’re sure.” Marnie tried not to sound unconvinced.

  “It’s probably not the first time I've been rescued by a Spitfire.”

  Stalker shivered. He had a plan worked out apart from one small detail. This was a lonely spot. Marnie was alone on her boat. The storm would keep people away. The only snag was how to make the final move.

  A single woman was unlikely to let a complete stranger onto her boat in a remote place like this. And what if she was not alone? What if one or more of the heavy mob from the working boats was travelling with her to handle the locks? He needed to suss out the situation, which meant watching her once she started off again.

  He peered out from the shed. The rain immediately struck him full in the face. He wiped his eyes and was horrified to see that the boat had gone. For the next minute he cursed and swore.

  The rain was still falling in buckets, but he had to go on. He jerked his jacket zip as high as it would go, yanked the baseball cap firmly onto his head and strode out. He had a foreboding that this was going to end
badly.

  Marnie needed all her concentration to keep Sally Ann on course. The winds were buffeting her in all directions. Raindrops were crashing in waves on the roof. At any other time she would have pulled over.

  The countryside was deserted, though once or twice, looking back, Marnie caught sight of a solitary figure plodding along in the far distance. Normally she would have stopped to take him or her on board out of the tempest, but this was an emergency. Mentally she apologised to the walker and gripped the tiller firmly.

  Twenty minutes later a church tower came into view. Roofs appeared over the trees, rising up a slight hill against the backdrop of grey and black clouds. Ahead was a bridge and before it on the right bank was a place to moor.

  Marnie brought Sally in and Skinhead came out on deck.

  “How long will it take to get your car?”

  “Not long.” He stepped ashore and disappeared into the rain.

  Marnie went below and found Iris Winterburn sitting up. Attila had propped her up with pillows.

  “Is this the village with the bridge? I stayed here for a while in the war. We had engine trouble, had to wait for spare parts. You’re travelling solo?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were three of us girls in a crew: one to drive the motor, one to steer the butty, one lock-wheeling. Day in, day out.”

  “And to think you were known as the Idle Women!”

  Iris Winterburn stared at her. “You know about that? Perhaps you know it came from the initials of the Inland Waterways on our badges. Mine’s in that bag. Have a look if you want. It’s in the zip pocket on the side.”

  Marnie took out a small plastic badge, shiny with age. Around the top were the words National Service and below that the initials, IW.

  “I got that when I began my training at Marsworth, Maffers the boat people called it.”

  “And you’ve carried it with you ever since?”