by Leo McNeir
Marnie thought that on balance that was a good sign, at least in the circumstances. She thanked staff nurse Andrews and hung up, wondering whether it was the patient or the nurse who deserved her sympathy.
Stalker was up to his neck in hot water. He took a slug of hot toddy, lay back and closed his eyes. A double measure of bath salts had produced foam like deep snow, but he could not smell a thing. He sneezed and blew a gap in the froth like an Inuit’s fishing hole. It was positively the last time he would ever attempt to follow anyone on a canal boat.
When he had reported back to his client he had described his results in the best light.
“I hope this is good news.” The voice like gravel.
“I got her.”
“Did you get her to talk?”
“Piece o’ cake.”
“And?”
“She knows nothing.”
“I need to be sure of that.”
“Guaranteed. She’s not carrying anything, not hiding anything, doesn’t know anything.”
“She could be lying.”
“I searched the boat when I got her out of the way.”
Alarm. “You took her out? Was that necessary?”
“A diversionary tactic. I didn’t think you wanted her … taken out.”
“No. But you got her talking.”
“Oh yes. In the end she was offering me money.”
Gravel chuckled. “I bet you really hung her out to dry, eh?”
Stalker winced at the choice of words. “In a manner of speaking.”
He took another slug of the toddy. If he had had a conscience it would have troubled him.
Roger Broadbent took the afternoon off to do some odd jobs on the boat. He was in the galley on Rumpole, turning the corkscrew in a promising bottle of Australian Chardonnay when he heard the knock. He was convinced that some of his boating neighbours were equipped with radar when it came to wine. Still holding the bottle, he pushed open one of the doors with his free hand. For a few moments he could not believe what he saw.
Old Peter was standing on the footpath in flat cap and shirtsleeves, the bowl of a pipe protruding from the top pocket of his dungarees. He did not speak.
Roger quickly regained his composure. “Ah, it’s er … er, won’t you come in?”
“Uh-huh.” With surprising agility for his age and bulk, Old Peter stepped onto the gunwale, swivelled and reversed down the steps into the galley.
“Er, can I offer you a glass of wine, perhaps?”
“No thanks.” Old Peter reached into his top pocket, pulled out an envelope and held it in front of him. Roger took it. There was no writing on it, front or back, no name or address, just a plain buff business envelope, sealed down.
“Am I to open it?”
The old man shook his head. “It is for … Marnie.” He spoke slowly as if weighing each word.
“Marnie? Who is Marnie?”
“Sally Ann.”
Roger pondered this information. “Along by the tunnel? Young woman, dark hair, nice looking, doing up the boat?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You are a solicitor?”
“That’s right.”
“Keep that safe and give it to her.”
The obvious question was: why not give it to her himself? Roger realised that Sally Ann had not been at her mooring for a while.
“Is this a legal matter?”
Old Peter looked serious. “It is not illegal.”
Roger suppressed a smile. “I mean, is it a legal document, like a will, for example, or something of that sort?”
“Not exactly.”
Roger could feel there was more than one sheet of paper inside. “Does it contain any money?”
“No.”
“Are you aware that some types of document need to be witnessed?”
“Not that one.”
“I see.” He did not see. “So you just want me to keep a lookout for … er, Marnie – do you know her surname?”
“Walker.” He answered without hesitation. “She is Marnie Walker … of Sally Ann.” He made it sound like an official endorsement of her status as a boatman.
Roger repeated the name as he picked up a pencil and wrote it – the whole title – on the envelope. “Okay. I’ll make sure she gets it as soon as she returns. What should she do with it? Is there any other message, anything else I should tell her?”
“She will decide.”
“Is it urgent? Do you want me to try to get her phone number and ring her, perhaps?”
“No.”
“You can’t give it to her yourself?”
“She will understand.”
Roger looked at the envelope. “I see.” For the second time he did not see. “This is important, isn’t it?”
“It is important to me.”
Marnie ordered coffee and sat in the saloon bar. She wanted to use the pub’s moorings for a while and felt guilty at taking up space without buying anything. The barman arrived with her cup.
“Did you want sugar?”
“No thanks. Do you have a payphone?”
“In the hall over there. Do you need change?”
“No. I, er, I want to ask you a favour … two, actually.”
“Try me.”
“I need to call my sister in America.”
“The phone takes credit cards as well as cash.”
“Good, but the favour is, I can’t phone her until some time this afternoon.”
“Time zones, yeah. So you want to stay on our mooring.”
“Would that be possible?”
“What are you doing for lunch?”
“Eating here.”
“Then you’re a customer. No problem. Did you say two favours?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could put my mobile on charge?”
The barman held out a hand. “Give it here. How long?”
“An hour or two, max.”
The barman left with the phone and charger but returned a minute later carrying a newspaper.
Marnie smiled. “That’s kind of you.”
“Try page seven, bottom of the page.”
She found the article under the heading, Canal Tunnel Closure.
British Waterways have temporarily closed the Ashted tunnel in Birmingham following reports of cracks in the roof lining. A spokesman regretted the inconvenience and hoped the tunnel would soon re-open. “It’s a bad time for this to happen in the middle of the holiday season. Boaters should expect some congestion.” A similar problem caused the closure of the two-mile long Blisworth tunnel for four years in the early 1980's.
Marnie knew the Ashted tunnel was on her planned route. There were other ways through Birmingham, but the thought of queuing at locks in the shadow of Dickensian factories was not appealing. The cruising guide had given an ominous warning: a risk of vandalism. Perhaps the congestion was because the boats would be travelling in convoys with destroyer escort.
She returned to the boat for a council of war with Dolly. After a lengthy and one-sided discussion, a change of plan was agreed. The BCN and the Llangollen Arm were dropped in favour of Oxford and the Thames.
Marnie reported the news later that afternoon when she dialled Boston and spoke with Beth, who seemed surprised that Marnie was still travelling on Sally Ann.
“Beth, it’s your plans I’m more concerned about. Paul's sabbatical … what's happening?”
A sigh. “It’s the old story. Government funding cuts. They have to make economies. The guy covering for Paul is one of them, so we have to come back early.”
“Is Paul’s job secure?”
“For now, but he can forget about promotion. We’d stay here permanently given half a chance.”
“Is that possible?”
“Not at present, at least not for a tenured post.” Beth mentioned the names of Paul’s colleagues whose positions were ‘under review’.
“Under review doesn't sound
too bad.”
“It's a euphemism, Marnie. At universities they only ever use words that sound harmless. Say the department is going to close, and they dismiss it as a rumour. Say it’s under review. and they know they’re dead flesh.”
Marnie spent the evening reading the cruising guides and every article she could find in the old magazines about the South Oxford Canal and the river Thames. On balance, she thought it was a good decision. Like so many decisions that summer, it would change her life.
29
Blisworth Tunnel
Wednesday morning, and Marnie awoke to the stirrings of the country. Somewhere in the distance a sheep was bleating. Others followed in an erratic chorus. A few birds singing. A random cow.
She reached up for the alarm clock. Just after five, much earlier than she thought, but she was wide awake, the day was bright and it was time to move on. Oxford beckoned. She thought of ‘dreaming spires’, bookshops, art galleries, museums, bistros. After that, the home run via the Thames.
With a muted warbling, Dolly leapt up onto the duvet. Marnie stroked velvety ears and heard the purring start up. It was a summons. The day had officially begun.
Once underway, Marnie worked steadily up the Stoke Bruerne flight with a clear head and energy revived. It was still early when they glided gently past the sleeping craft lined up through the village.
Trees crowded in on both sides as Marnie accelerated to cruising speed, approaching the entrance to Blisworth tunnel. It seemed strange pulling on a waterproof jacket over a jumper on a fine summer morning. There was warmth in the sun, but Marnie dutifully followed the advice in the guide book.
Dolly appeared on deck, licking her whiskers and sniffing the air. She jumped nimbly onto the roof and took up her customary position on the hatch. With collar turned up, Marnie flicked on the headlamp as the entrance to the tunnel loomed ahead in the hillside. Suddenly, Dolly stopped in mid-lick, sat up straight and stared towards the bows. Seconds later she hopped down and disappeared below. The air at the mouth of the tunnel had turned icy cold.
Marnie zipped the jacket up to her chin as the bows entered the portal, thinking of her first run through the tunnel in Little Venice an age ago. Nosing through darkness, the note from the engine echoed around her. She found it hard to steer a straight course, despite the headlamp, and even harder to believe men had actually legged it in times past, walking against the sides of the tunnel, while the horses were led over the top along the bridleway.
At intervals, air vents let down a pool of pale daylight. Marnie tried to look up one of them to gain an impression of the depth of the tunnel, but had to leap aside to avoid a shower from the opening. In that sudden loss of concentration, Sally Ann veered over and clouted the wall with a resounding clang. Marnie was glad there were no spectators.
Half an hour later they emerged from the gloom, the engine noise diminished, and the brightness overwhelmed her. Marnie tugged off the jacket.
“We did it, Dolly!” She took a deep breath. “You can come out now.”
But Dolly stayed hidden for the rest of the morning.
Gary had spent a restless night. He was not sure if he should be worrying about Sheena or whether this sudden absence was just the first move in the brush-off. Somehow it did not feel like that. Nothing in her behaviour had suggested she wanted to end their relationship. It did not fit in with his past experience, but you could never be quite sure where women were concerned. They were unpredictable. Take that Marnie. She had told him one thing and done the opposite. Totally unreliable, just like a woman. But he thought he knew Sheena better than that.
He got up and prepared breakfast. It did not take long. With the first drag of the day, breathing the smoke down into his lungs, he was coughing as he filled the kettle. He felt much better.
His mate Brendan was picking him up in the van soon after seven for another fit-out job at Harefield. With any luck he should be back by the end of the afternoon. He might be in time to nip round to the shop and see if Sheena was back.
Gary knew he would be thinking about her all day. He did not like not knowing what was going on. While he was pouring tea he saw the business with Gravel and Old Peter as part of the same picture. The whole situation was unsettling. Now, Gravel had stopped calling on him. Another disappearance. Was there a pattern here? Were they connected? And Marnie? What was her part in it all?
He tried to fathom it out. Sheena … Gravel … Old Peter … Marnie. Four people who had become prominent in his life in the past few weeks. Now three of them had faded from the scene. Just like that.
He slurped hot tea and let his mind settle. Was it so strange? Marnie had worked on the boat and gone on a trip. No mystery, she had just decided to go off after collecting her supplies. No reason why she should not change her mind – she was a woman – and no reason why she should explain her plans to him.
What about Gravel? He came and went. That was what people like Gravel did. They turned up when you least expected them. Such men did not make appointments. But they did expect results. That was what worried Gary. He had nothing to show for his efforts. Excuses did not count. Sooner or later, Gravel would be back. It brought little comfort.
And Old Peter, what was he up to? Those conversations with Marnie … She came from nowhere, and suddenly they were big buddies. How could that be? She was a stranger, supposedly new to the waterways, but somehow managed to get in with a man who lived like a recluse and only knew about boats.
Now that he thought about it, Gary realised something had been bothering him for a while. That time in the tunnel. He thought he would give Marnie a scare, just for a laugh. Instead, she kept the boat straight on course until the last second when she flicked the tiller and bumped him. He was sure it was deliberate and thought, perhaps she fancied him. But could it have been a warning? Don’t mess with me!
He poured a second cup. The tunnel incident still did not explain her connection with the old man. What if it was totally innocent? She had had a problem with the boat. He helped her. She went round to thank him. Easy. Then why were they still meeting? They had nothing in common. He was a lonely old bloke who had lived all his life on the cut. She was up-market crumpet. No connection. On the other hand, what if she knew about … something valuable? How could she? That was what he had to find out. That was what Gravel wanted.
Gary’s thoughts kept coming back to Sheena. Had she been hiding at the back of the shop the day before, or had she really phoned in sick? She had been fine when they had parted the previous day. This did not feel like the heave-ho. He could always tell when that was coming. It usually began with the same questions. Didn’t he want a proper place to live? Was he content just to stay on a boat for the rest of his life? Didn’t he want a proper job with a regular income?
Outside in the street a car horn sounded twice. Time to get going. Locking the boat, Gary looked at his watch and wondered what time the chemist’s closed that evening.
Marnie pulled over for breakfast, slipping in to moor, stern against stern, in a patch of sunshine behind a boat called Foxcote. She quickly turned off the engine. To celebrate the passage of the tunnel, she popped two rolls into the oven, put the kettle on and poured a glass of orange juice. She was setting up the folding table on the deck, when the stern door of the next boat opened and a bleary face looked out. A middle-aged woman stifled a yawn and smiled.
“You're up early.”
Marnie smiled back. “I wanted a clear run at the tunnel.”
“Going far?”
“I was going to Llangollen, but now it’s Oxford.”
“That’s a lovely trip. Betty Atkins.”
“Marnie Walker. Can I offer you coffee?”
Betty looked over her shoulder. “Why not? There's no sign of life in there.” Wrapping a dressing gown round herself, she stepped onto the towpath and went aboard Sally Ann.
They sat together in warm sunshine, chatting about places to visit. Betty spotted Marnie's sketch pad and camera on the l
id of the gas-bottle container.
“Don't mind me asking, but are you an artist?”
“No. I just sketch as I go along.”
“May I?”
Marnie nodded. Betty picked up the pad and began browsing.
“Bridges and locks. My Ken would love these. Before he retired, he was a civil engineer with the county council.”
“Someone taking my name in vain?”
The voice came from behind them. A fleshy face was framed by the stern door on Foxcote. Introductions were made. Marnie offered breakfast and it was accepted.
Ken looked slowly through the sketchpad. “Beautiful bridges … lovely shape.”
“You'd like the Llangollen canal.” Betty pronounced the name with some deliberation. “The aqueducts are brilliant … Chirk and that other really big one.”
“Pontcysyllte?” said Marnie.
Ken smiled and shrugged. “We never quite manage the pronunciation, but I admire the engineering.”
“Ah yes … Telford's masterpiece.” Marnie expected ready agreement, but Ken and Betty glanced at each other without a word. “Er, have I got the wrong engineer?”
Betty leaned forward as if confiding a secret. “It's a bit of a hobby horse of Ken’s.”
“In what way?”
Ken made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I don’t want to bore you.”
“No, really.” Marnie inclined her head towards the sketchpad. “I’m interested in that kind of thing, structures, design.” The words brought an earlier conversation to mind.
Ken began hesitantly. “Well, it’s said to be Telford's, but he wasn’t the chief engineer.”
Marnie delved into her memory. “William Jessop?”
Ken’s face lit up. “Ah, you do know about these things.”
“I read about it somewhere, in a magazine, I think.”
Ken was away, explaining about the difference between being in charge of projects and doing the actual design work.
“… so it could be the chief’s design or the senior engineer’s, difficult to be sure. But sometimes, when I look at the details, I have doubts about whose it really was.”
