by Leo McNeir
“Good heavens no! I came across it in a drawer a few weeks ago, haven’t seen it for years. I’ve got no time for sentiment.”
Marnie zipped the badge back in its pocket. “It must have been strange to come and work on the canals.”
Iris Winterburn shrugged. “Learning to handle two seventy-footers carrying fifty tonnes, that’s no joke. But other women were driving lorries and buses. We all had the same perfume – not Dior, diesel.”
There was a rumble like distant thunder. It continued rolling and seemed to be getting closer.
Marnie looked towards the window. “Do you think that could be …?”
Her guest nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”
A car drew up by the towpath. It was worse than Marnie had feared. The Triumph Spitfire’s orange paintwork had dulled with age and was decorated with an iron cross design on the door and an American Confederate flag painted on the bonnet. A furry tail hung limp and sodden from the radio aerial. The horn blasted out the first notes of Colonel Bogey.
Marnie and Skinhead supported Iris Winterburn out onto the stern deck where she regarded the car dispassionately.
“Did you say you used to have one of these?” she said to Marnie.
“Well, er, yes, sort of, not quite so …”
They stood in the rain for a few moments.
Marnie chewed her lip. “Perhaps we ought to phone for an ambulance, after all. It would probably be –”
A dismissive gesture. “We’ve got transport. Our friend’s car will be fine.”
Our friend!
“Well, if you’re –”
“Come on. Let’s make a move.”
Attila had been right about the doors. They were long and opened wide, and it was no problem to slide the patient into the passenger seat. Her rucksack fitted neatly in the space behind. Skinhead climbed in and the Idle Woman wound the window down.
“I think this is going to be an interesting experience.” Drops of rain were splashing her face, but she ignored them.
“Are you reasonably comfortable?”
“Sublime.”
She turned away to speak with Attila. When she turned back, she had a cigarette between her lips.
Marnie raised an eyebrow. “I think he likes you.”
“I knew my luck would change.”
Before she could say another word, the car accelerated away. Colonel Bogey rang out in the rainy afternoon as they bounced over the bridge, and Marnie heard the raucous engine growling its way up the hill through the village. Soon it had disappeared like fading thunder.
Stalker was grateful for the tree, even though it offered little protection. He had been filled with dismay when Sally Ann reached a village and pulled into the bank. She could decide to stay there overnight. He huddled under the sparse canopy, about fifty yards from the bridge, and sneezed loudly. The sound was covered by the downpour. Perhaps his luck was changing.
He shrank back when someone came out of the boat and loped off as if on a mission. One of the skinheads; this was incredible. First, the working boats, now the skinheads. They were in cahoots! This was no chance stop-over. They had come here deliberately for a purpose. What was going on? Back at the lock when he had first seen them, they must have been waiting for Marnie. Why had Gravel not warned him about this? The answer was simple. Gravel did not know.
He sneezed again. Again the sound was camouflaged, this time by the strains of Colonel Bogey. Stalker wondered if he was hallucinating. There was the skinhead again, bounding onto the boat as if he was part of the crew. Stalker pulled back, soaked through to his bone marrow.
He risked another look. Now, there was a group of them on the deck. In the rain, it was like looking through a net curtain, and a vast striped umbrella hid them from view. Could this be another handover?
Stalker was beginning to realise how perfect the canals were for criminal activities. They went everywhere, but were invisible most of the time. The boats were slow, but they could travel day and night. Stick a few tubs of pansies on the roof and they looked as innocent as Little Red Riding Hood.
Another look. He heard an engine revving, powerful and throaty like a getaway car, tyres biting into a gravelly road surface. There was Colonel Bogey again. These people were so confident, they didn’t care who heard them.
He tried to make sense of it all. Working boats, all those crewmen, skinheads, meeting places, the canal network, remote country. He had never thought of the possibilities before, could not work out if he had hit upon an amazing truth or was rambling because he was getting feverish from exposure.
He wondered how many were on board Sally Ann. He would have to watch and wait. His next sneeze was not covered by the rainfall, but he was past caring.
Marnie stood the golf umbrella to drip in the shower tray. It had been a day of strange encounters. She had never expected to mix with war veterans and skinheads.
Suddenly an imaginary conversation came into her mind, a police officer asking questions and taking notes.
This injured lady, Mrs Walker. How did you arrange for her to receive medical treatment?
Marnie explained. The policeman licked his pencil.
Just let me get this straight, Mrs Walker. You handed over this elderly lady to a skinhead with a sports car to take her to some hospital that you think was the Northampton General. What was the name of this skinhead?
She did not know, but he was known affectionately as … Attila.
Can you describe the skinhead, Mrs Walker?
She did. The policeman checked his notes.
I see. He had several rings attached to his person, and a swastika tattoo on his forehead. Is that right?
She confirmed it was.
Can you describe the car? Did you notice its number plate?
She gave a description.
So, an orange sports car decorated with an iron cross to match his swastika tattoo. I think we're getting somewhere. Tell me, Mrs Walker, do you think that was very wise? I mean, would you have taken that course of action with your own grandmother?
Marnie shuddered. Outside, the rain was still falling. Inside, she surveyed the scene. There was the mud-stained blanket lying in a heap on the bed and wet patches on the floor. There was the stale smell of smoke in the air. Cups and saucers littered every surface. The whole place looked as if a bomb had hit it.
Stalker checked his watch. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since the last movement on Sally Ann. Decision time. With heavy cloud cover, an early dusk was coming down. If the boat was going to stay there all night, it was a no-go, too conspicuous. If there were no developments in ten minutes, he would have to begin the trek back to the car. The rain was falling steadily. He sneezed again.
After ten minutes Stalker moved off and had gone barely twenty paces when the boat’s rear doors swung open. A hooded figure came on deck as the engine clanked into life. Marnie was alone. She untied the mooring ropes, glanced over her shoulder and in seconds the boat was gliding under the bridge. He waited a few minutes and began to follow.
The map had shown a lock not far up the cut. He was closing in.
Despite the rain Marnie was glad to be on the move again. With the boat tidied, she was running with cratch and stern doors half open to clear the smell of cigarette smoke. She wanted nothing more than to find a quiet mooring, prepare supper, enjoy a glass of wine, listen to some music and have an early night.
Glancing back, she wondered briefly what had become of the solitary towpath-walker. A quarter of an hour later she found her quiet spot, tied up and went below, pulling the doors together to shut out the wet evening. She switched on the heating, lit the oil lamps and drew the curtains.
Corelli chamber music was playing as she turned up the lamp wicks, boiled water for rice and opened a jar of mild korma sauce. A glass of chilled sauvignon blanc fortified her while she chopped a red pepper, shallots, courgettes and aubergine. Civilisation had returned to the Grand Union. With two pans on the cooker, she took a
sip of wine and had a pang of conscience. The stern gland!
She pulled out a jacket from the locker. Reaching into the shower-room, she grabbed the golf umbrella, pushed open the doors, thrust out the umbrella and snapped it open with a flourish. She heard movement on the towpath: a gasp, an expletive, a swishing sound, a muffled plop. A man lay sprawled in the mud. He sneezed loudly.
Marnie held out a helping hand.
“I’ve been wondering about you. You’d better come aboard.”
Stunned, wary and shivering, Stalker clambered onto the deck and went below, relieved to find no welcoming heavy mob or gang of skinheads. He turned to speak, sneezed again and passed out.
Marnie contemplated the man lying in a heap on the saloon floor.
This seems to be my day for rescuing orphans of the storm.
28
Envelope
The storm had blown itself out in the night. Marnie awoke the next morning to stillness peppered with birdsong. The landscape looked as if it had been rinsed and hung on the line to dry in the pale sunshine. A haze hung over the countryside. It reminded Marnie of a line from The Shepherd’s Calendar by John Clare.
The village sleeps in mist from dawn till noon …
She took the boat through the first lock of the day and returned to find her guest sitting on the gas bottle container. He looked crumpled and miserable.
“Good morning.” Bright but not too breezy, she hoped.
He croaked in reply.
Marnie went below and came back a couple of minutes later with a mug of Lemsip, a remedy against colds. On her next appearance she draped a blanket round his shoulders. He was halfway through the Lemsip when she came up on deck with toast and coffee. The man looked at the tray and winced.
Marnie breakfasted in silence while the visitor gradually revived. He blinked in her direction, which she took as a good sign. She spoke quietly.
“You’re on the narrowboat Sally Ann somewhere in Northamptonshire. It’s about seven-thirty. You came aboard last evening and passed out. You spent the night on the floor under the blanket that you’re now wearing. That’s the story so far.”
The man nodded.
“Oh yes, and my name’s Marnie Walker.”
The man cleared his throat. “You said something, last night, when you saw me …”
“I do things like that, say something when I meet someone. It’s a sort of habit.”
“You were expecting we’d meet, something like that.”
“Well, I’d seen you – or someone – walking the towpath. I couldn’t stop. I had an injured old lady on board. I needed to get her to hospital.”
“What about the skinheads?”
“You saw them?”
“Yeah.”
“There was one skinhead on board, helping me with the old lady.”
“You usually mix with skinheads?”
“Skinheads and old ladies, yes. I collect them. It’s a hobby.”
He frowned.
She laughed. “Sorry, I’m being flippant.”
“So where are they now?”
“Good question. Hospital, I think, I hope.”
He drained the Lemsip. “You’ve got plans?”
“Not really, just cruising, a sort of extended holiday.”
“Where d’you start off from?”
“Little Venice. That’s in London, but you must know that.”
“Why must I know it?”
“You sound like a Londoner. Could you manage a cup of coffee now?”
“Yeah.”
“Now it’s my turn to ask questions.” The man looked suspicious. “What are we going to do with you?”
“We?” More suspicious.
“A manner of speaking. Presumably you’ll need a hot bath and a change of clothing. I can’t provide those.” Marnie stood up. “But I can provide coffee.”
Alone on deck, Stalker tried to work Marnie out. Was she as straight as she seemed or was she boxing clever? Was she confident and relaxed because she had back-up? She certainly looked relaxed enough when she returned.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“What d’you have in mind?” A croak.
“A road crosses the canal by a pub about a mile further on. We could get you a taxi from there.”
He hesitated. Marnie sensed a problem.
“Do you have money?” she asked.
“Money?”
“I could lend you some, if that would, you know …”
“Lend me some?
“Sure. You could pay me back later.”
“How … how could I get it to you?”
She reached into her back pocket. “Here’s my business card. That’s my office in London.”
“You’re actually offering me money?”
“Just enough to get you where you need to be. Please don’t be embarrassed.”
He looked at the address on the card. “No. it’s all right, thanks. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sorted.”
Gary was on his way to see a man about a job but gave himself an extra ten minutes for a diversion. He was the shop’s first customer that morning. A figure emerged from behind the pharmacy partition at the rear to meet him, but not the figure he expected.
“Can I help you?” Auburn hair, glossy lips, brown eyes. Nice. But not Sheena.
“Where’s Sheena?”
The assistant glanced back over her shoulder. Gary studied the display of toothpaste.
“I er, need a tube of er …” He picked one up at random and looked sideways at the girl. Lowering his voice he murmured, “Is Sheena in?”
“No, not this morning.”
“What d’you mean she’s not in this morning?”
“This morning’s now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she’s not here. That’s what I mean. She rang in sick.”
“Sick?”
A cough from the pharmacy. The girl raised her voice. “Will that be all, sir?”
Gary scowled and walked out of the shop leaving her holding the toothpaste. He pulled the mobile out of his jeans pocket and pressed buttons. A distant voice spoke to him.
The number you are phoning is not available, please try later.
He was crossing the road when he realised he did not have a home phone number for Sheena or even her address. She was out of reach. His pace faltered momentarily. Behind him a car honked a warning.
After the taxi had left, Marnie sat in the saloon, deep in thought about the towpath rambler. Had he really been just out walking and got caught in the storm? Where was he going? Why? That was the problem: she had a bucketful of questions, but no answers.
It had been an ordeal to act naturally and make polite conversation. Two things bothered her: the stranger had had plenty of questions of his own; he knew much more about her than would have been apparent to a casual observer. He had seen her with the working boats; he had seen her with the skinheads; he had seen her alone yesterday evening.
Could he really have been watching her for days? Marnie could think of no reason why he should. She was about to dismiss the idea as absurd when she remembered Anne’s second message on the answerphone. A man was asking about a boat called Sally Ann …
Old Peter had rounded Browning Island and was pointing the grey-green boat towards Maida Hill tunnel when he saw Gary hurrying along the towpath looking preoccupied. He seemed less relaxed these days. Someone was causing him grief. He had seen Gary with his latest girlfriend. Girls could always cause grief, especially that sort, blonde, flighty, skirts too short to keep out the draught.
But was she the problem? Why was Gary so worried? Why was he looking for Marnie? Lots of questions, the old man thought. One simple answer.
He steered past the boat called Rumpole, which he knew belonged to a solicitor. He had often seen him pottering about, glass of wine in hand. Some of the windows were open, which meant he was there that afternoon. At the end of the line of
boats Sally Ann’s mooring was empty. The old man lined up for the bank. He had reached a decision.
Marnie needed a quiet morning after the storm to finish tidying the boat. She pulled onto one of the pub’s moorings and, as soon as it opened, she went in to use the payphone.
“General Hospital.”
“Can you put me through to casualty, please.”
“One moment.”
“Accident and emergency. Staff nurse Andrews speaking.” A trim, Scottish voice.
“Hallo. I'm phoning to enquire about an elderly lady who came to you yesterday with an injured ankle.”
“Her name?”
“Iris Winterburn.”
A pause. “Are you a relative?”
“Well, no, not actually. I’m the person who found her … in a field by the canal. I got her onto my boat.”
Another pause. “Are you related to the, er, person who brought the patient in?”
“No.” Marnie tried to sound emphatic. “I'd never met him before.”
“We don’t give information about patients except to relatives, normally.”
“I'm just concerned about her. I wanted to be sure she was okay, that's all.”
Silence.
“Are you there? Look, I'm sorry if the skinhead gave you any trouble, but I would really like to know –”
“The skinhead? He was no trouble at all. He wouldn't leave her side all the time she was here.”
“Then what's the problem?”
Hesitation. “She was the problem. She told us we were doing it all wrong and we wouldn't survive five minutes in a real emergency.”
Marnie groaned. “Have you admitted her?”
“Oh, no! She allowed us to put a tubigrip on her ankle – it was a bad sprain – and then she insisted on discharging herself into the custody of her friend … Attila.”
“Attila?”
“That's what she called him.”
“Where is she now?”
“No idea. The last we saw of her, she was being pushed down the corridor in a wheelchair by Attila. She was asking him if he knew what wheelies were.”
