by Leo McNeir
She spent the evenings writing up the log or reading, with music playing softly in the background. At times, the only sound in the cabin was the bell on Dolly's collar, tinkling against the edge of her feeding bowl, Dolly the stowaway, first in a series of encounters at the very start of the journey. Flicking through the logbook, Marnie thought of the others: Anne (with an ‘e’), Jack Hadley, Iris Winterburn, Attila, Andrew, the Henrys. Where were they now?
Then there was Ralph Lombard. Would he just do it? Would he spend his sabbatical year travelling on the waterways, become a scholar water gypsy? By a quirk of synchronicity, Classic FM was playing music from the movies, including the original soundtrack version of As Time Goes By from Casablanca, one of Marnie’s all-time favourites. On that evening she had poured herself a brandy and could not help but remember Ralph’s face.
Of all the canals in all the world, you have to fall into mine …
She shrugged. It was more than probable, she thought, that she would never see Ralph or any of them ever again.
In the days following Sheena’s return, Gary wondered when Gravel would make a comeback but the prospect did not worry him. With Old Peter in hospital, he had a readymade excuse for not putting the screws on the old boy and he could point out that he had been on the spot when the heart attack had struck.
Most days Sheena rang, but not as often as before. The drawback with the new job was that she had to study in the evenings, and they could only see each other at weekends. She explained that, as assistant pharmacist (trainee), her days were busier and she spent more time working alongside Mr Pillbrow. Yes, she assured Gary, the old lecher was keeping his hands to himself. The ‘new responsibilities’ meant that her calls had to be briefer now.
“Hi, Gary, it’s me. Just time for a quickie.”
“I’ll be right round darlin’ …”
“Gary!”
After a few days’ cruising, Marnie tied up at Henley and went in search of stores. In the town centre she spotted a phone box. Her first call was to Beth. No reply; she left a message. The next was to Jane.
“Marnie! We thought you must have sunk.”
They exchanged news. Jane assured Marnie that Gary had not let her mooring to anyone else. The rumour in Little Venice was that Mrs Jolly had had radar installed. Gary had no way of penetrating her security.
After disconnecting, Marnie had two more numbers to ring. Both made her feel apprehensive, but for different reasons. She took a deep breath and dialled the first.
“Biology Department.”
“I'd like to speak to Dr. Boyd, please.”
There was a click.
“Stephen Boyd.”
“Steve. It's Marnie. You left a message. Sorry to take so long replying. I’ve been travelling.”
“That’s fine. Look, I'm just going into a meeting, but I would like to talk to you. Could I pop round this evening? Are you free?”
“I am free, but I’m in Henley.”
“Henley?”
“On the Thames.”
“Yes, I know where it is.”
“I expect to be back within a week.”
“Oh, this is rather awkward.”
“I don’t want to make you late for your meeting.”
“No. It’s just, well, I’m going off to a conference tomorrow, to Padua … in Italy.”
“I know where it is. That’s nice.”
“I’m, er, not going alone.”
Marnie felt hugely relieved. Before she could frame a reply, Steve continued.
“I know this must come as a shock to you, Marnie –”
“I quite understand.”
“I’m really sorry to break it to you like this, but with you being away all this time …”
“No, it’s okay, really.”
“Thank you for taking it so well.”
God, you’re a pompous prig, she thought. “Not at all. Well, have a good trip and, er, enjoy your conference.”
With a burden lifted, she dialled her last number.
“I'd like to speak to Philip Everett, please. It's Marnie.” She waited for a few seconds to be connected.
“How's it going?” Philip sounded strained. “Where are you?”
“In Henley-on-Thames. Everything’s fine. You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes. Er, when d’you think we could meet?”
“That sounds a bit ominous.”
“It's just … I can't discuss it at the moment.”
“Shall I call back or come to see you? I should be around next week.”
“Ring me when you get back. We’ll put something in the diary.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s slightly embarrassing.”
Gary was towelling himself dry after a shower when his mobile started chirping in the saloon. He padded through the boat, hoping it was Sheena finishing work and suggesting they meet. As he grabbed the phone a smile was forming.
The call was a surprise. Old Peter was leaving hospital that morning. Still damp, he threw on some clothes, left the boat and took off at top speed.
Later that week Marnie moored just above Teddington Lock, opposite the film studios, and outlined her plans for the next leg of the journey to the lock-keeper. He agreed her calculations and advised her to phone ahead to Brentford to let the keeper know she would be coming through next morning.
With a little apprehension about going on to the tidal section, Marnie sat in the saloon on Sally Ann that evening, with the cruising guide on the table and Dolly in the opposite chair. A Brandenburg Concerto was playing on the tape machine, a joss stick scenting the air with snow jasmine.
According to the tide chart, they should go through Teddington Lock just before eight to catch high water. They would run against slow current for about an hour. Then the tide would turn as they were nearing Richmond and they should reach the entrance to the Grand Union at Brentford about half an hour later. It all seemed quite straightforward.
“Is anything straightforward where boats and water are concerned?” Marnie said out loud, closing the cruising guide.
Dolly only looked up briefly from washing her tail. She knew it was a rhetorical question.
44
Tide
The Teddington Lock gates opened to release Sally Ann at precisely eight o'clock that pale grey Friday morning. The boat was dripping with condensation, and Marnie could feel a late September chill in the breeze. With a final wave to the lock-keeper, she pulled up the collar of her jacket and turned to face the rising tide. At this stage in its cycle it was running against her at about one mile an hour and offered little resistance. They chugged steadily down to Richmond where elegant buildings rose from the banks in layers and Marnie noticed that the river had ceased to run. Slack water.
Sally Ann cruised on, the tide now slowly turning in her favour, past ranks of barges moored in the channel. Within less than half an hour Marnie saw the sign on her left marking the entrance to the canal at Brentford. She pushed the tiller hard over to bring the bows left and for a moment thought she would over-run, miss the turning and float on past. But Sally responded, aimed herself at the canal entrance and scampered round the tight bend under full throttle.
The first lock was operated for her by the keeper. He noted the name and ticked her off his list. They motored on between old factory buildings to the second lock. Marnie made ready to secure the boat when a man appeared up ahead and waved her forward.
As Sally Ann rose in the lock chamber, Marnie called over to the keeper.
“Any more manned locks on this stretch?”
He shook his head. “From here on, you're on your own.”
While the tea was brewing in the pot, Mrs Jolly walked through to her sitting room and moved the lace curtains apart with a finger. It had been part of her routine all summer, ever since that man with the cheeky face had let Marnie’s space to another boat. Sally Ann’s mooring was clear.
After breakfast Mrs Jolly promised herself a baking session. Marnie’s homecoming sho
uld be marked with a proper celebration.
The journey was not yet over. The pale sunshine may have belonged to the first days of Autumn, but it still had the strength to warm. Heading north away from the Thames, Marnie tugged off her jacket at the first lock. By the next, she was down to jeans and T-shirt. So far she had not encountered a single other craft travelling in either direction.
The landscape was partly industrial, partly suburban, with occasional views over parkland, the canal hemmed in by roads and railways, criss-crossed by bridges. The map showed eight more locks ahead, raising the canal nearly a hundred feet.
A piece of paper fell out of the guide and landed at her feet. She read the message:
BITCH
TIME YOU THOUGHT ABOUT IT
LET ME KNOW
G
The note made her smile, but also reminded her of the need to think about Sally's hull. There was always some job waiting to be done. It did not occur to Marnie that it might not be her responsibility. Before one more day was out, her role as boat skipper would be over.
At the top of the Hanwell flight, Marnie was hot, weary and ready for food. She found a pub near the towpath, sat under a parasol in its garden and ordered pâté and toast with a glass of cider.
Waiting for lunch to arrive, she rang Mrs Jolly, who invited her for coffee on Sunday morning.
The afternoon was as warm as almost any that summer. Marnie changed into shorts and washed over the bodywork. In an hour Sally Ann was shining in the sunlight. Next, she tidied the interior. It still pleased her as it had at the start, but now it looked and felt like home. Marnie knew that she too had changed. She had become part of the boat as the boat had become part of her.
The evening was mild enough to eat out on deck. Marnie sipped a spritzer while tossing the salad and chopping herbs into the omelette. Only the occasional jogger passed by as she sat out in the warm air, watching the sky turn to pale grey and pink as the sun went down. Music wafted out from the cabin. From her limited collection of tapes she had chosen Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis.
Marnie waited until darkness had fallen before going inside. It was the last evening of Sally Ann's summer.
45
Procession
Marnie woke at six-thirty on Saturday morning. The cabin felt chilly. She sat up in bed and parted the curtain. The world was grey. She yawned and wiped condensation from the window. Still grey.
Outside all was silent. The cold air smelt of damp earth, and from the stern deck she could see up to the bows but no further. The bushes on the other side of the canal floated in mist.
Ten minutes later, dressed for warmth, Marnie cast off and took the boat through the last two locks of her journey. Nosing out of the top lock she switched on the headlamp and running lights. The suburb of Norwood was invisible. Fog enclosed Sally Ann as she headed slowly north towards Bull's Bridge.
After half an hour, Marnie scanned the right-hand bank intently, looking for the white-painted outline of the bridge at the entrance to the Paddington Arm. In about four hours she would reach Little Venice.
All London seemed to be sleeping in the mist while Sally Ann groped her way along the canal. Marnie tried not to become mesmerised by the grey air and could only judge progress by noting the numbers on the bridges that she passed.
Hours dragged by. At one moment the sky brightened and for a few seconds Marnie glimpsed the sun. She estimated that this was the approach to Kensal Green and she strained to pick out the hulks of the gasholders that should be standing over to her right. Somewhere round the next bend she would see the supermarket opposite the old cemetery.
The sun strained through again, turning the mundane stretch of waterway into a painting by Turner. The extra light merged water, sky and the damp condensed air into one swirling vapour. Marnie stood transfixed, suspended in time and space. Looking up, she saw the sun piercing the clouds and its light blinded her.
She eased the tiller over to take the long bend and at once sensed movement ahead. Her eyes were trying to focus but could find nothing to hold in the dazzling opaque light. Marnie blinked furiously. There it was. A boat was turning across her path, the steerer intent on the manoeuvre, looking the other way.
Marnie swung the tiller. Passing round the stern, she quickly dropped the engine to idling and steered back to mid-channel, realising in that instant that another boat was ahead. Over went the tiller. Again Sally turned and headed for the bank, where a third craft was pulling in.
Marnie had no time to think, weaving her way through this armada. She sensed rather than saw other boats. The sun was still struggling through the mist. Reflections dazzled and confused her, like a conjuror’s stage-set of smoke and mirrors. A shadow appeared ahead and she veered left. What was going on?
A shape loomed up on her left, a working boat, its tarpaulins fastened back, was passing through the water with hardly a ripple, at the edge of Marnie’s field of vision, half hidden in the mist. She stared. On a platform in the middle of the boat, covered with a huge three-coloured cloth, lay a coffin. She had inadvertently blundered into a funeral procession. The coffin-boat glided past in silence.
More boats came by, the steerers concentrating on their passage through the fog. And then the cortege had passed. It had been the most bizarre incident of the summer. All Marnie's thoughts were on the strange procession, the ghost-fleet on its way to the cemetery, the simple dignity of the coffin-boat.
The sun only began clearing the mist on the final approach to Little Venice. Marnie switched off the headlamp. In her mind she saw again the outline of the coffin. Only then did she realise that its shroud had been a flag, the tri-colour of Ireland.
46
Homecoming
“Ah, the water gypsy returns!” Beaming, Mrs Jolly kissed Marnie on both cheeks. She took the flowers that Marnie had brought and led her through to the kitchen.
“It's nice to see you looking so well, my dear. I've made a few biscuits to welcome you home. How does it feel to be back?”
“It’s lovely to see you again, but it feels odd in a way, being back, rather an anti-climax.”
Mrs Jolly put the flowers in a vase and stood back to admire them. “It’s not surprising, really, after all your travelling. And then there’s what I call London Sunday Blues, how strangely quiet it can seem.”
Marnie agreed. “It was the same yesterday, too. Little Venice seemed curiously deserted.”
Mrs Jolly ushered Marnie towards the sitting room. “It was very misty for much of yesterday, of course. That always quietens things down.”
“I suppose so. But I – Oh …”
Marnie stopped in her tracks as the old lady opened the sitting room door. Table lamps were glowing and the fire was alight, reflecting off Mrs Jolly’s best china. The low table had been laid with plates of biscuits of various shapes and sizes. The chintz covers on the furniture made Marnie want to flop down forever.
“This looks wonderful, Mrs Jolly, a real homecoming.”
“I’m so glad you like it, my dear. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you seem a little sombre. Are you sorry you’ve finished your journey?”
Mrs Jolly reached for the coffee pot and offered Marnie an armchair.
“Actually, there’s more to it than that, Mrs Jolly. I think the place was deserted yesterday because of the funeral.”
“Oh. I didn’t see it.”
“It was at Kensal Green cemetery, a waterborne funeral. I ran into it – almost literally – on the canal in thick fog.”
“I didn’t realise they had that kind of funeral.”
“They did yesterday.”
Mrs Jolly leaned forward to pour the coffee. Straightening up, she glanced towards the window.
“There's that man again, hanging around Sally Ann, the one who rented out your mooring space.”
They both went to the window.
“Actually, Marnie, I saw him there last night just before I went to bed. At first I t
hought it might be you, so I looked out.” She giggled. “Do you think I'm becoming a curtain-twitcher?”
Gary turned and begin walking down the towpath. He had barely gone a few paces when he was joined by a woman.
“That’s your friend, isn’t it, my dear?”
Marnie nodded. “Jane Rutherford.”
Gary and Jane spoke briefly together before Gary went on his way. Jane waited for several seconds then turned, let herself out of the towpath gate and crossed the road.
“I think she’s coming here.” Mrs Jolly went to the door.
When the three of them were sitting comfortably, Jane asked about Marnie’s journey, but it was obvious she had something on her mind.
“Is everything all right, Jane? We saw you talking to Gary just then.”
Jane smiled. “The radar.”
Mrs Jolly looked puzzled.
Marnie replied. “Yes.”
“Gary wants to see you, or – more precisely – Roger Broadbent does.”
“Who’s Roger Broadbent?”
“Rumpole … along the towpath from you.”
“Why does he want to see me?”
“He’s a solicitor.”
“Oh?”
“I ought to start at the beginning.”
“Good idea. I only got back yesterday afternoon. I’m obviously out of touch.”
Jane frowned. “Yesterday?”
“Yes, I came through the fog and –”
“So you saw the funeral?”
“I inadvertently drove through it.”
“So you’ve heard the news?”
Marnie looked blank. “What news? I had to weave through the procession and by a miracle I didn’t hit anything. I was going to call round to see Old Peter. I figured he’d know all about it.”
