Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  “Marnie … it was his funeral. We were there to bury Old Peter.”

  Marnie felt a hollow sensation in her chest. She breathed in deeply. “Oh …”

  She stood up and moved towards the window. Looking out, she saw Old Peter passing on his grey-green boat, hat fixed firmly on his head, pipe clamped firmly in his mouth. She blinked several times and looked again. The canal was empty, with not a ripple on the water.

  Mrs Jolly stood up and put an arm round Marnie’s shoulders. “That’s very sad news. Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Yes. It’s just rather a shock. I had no idea he was …” Her voice petered out.

  Jane spoke softly. “He was a good age.”

  Marnie and Mrs Jolly sat down. “How did it happen?”

  “A heart attack on his boat. Gary was passing by chance and found him.”

  “So at least he died on the canal.”

  “Not then, Marnie. They got him to hospital. After a few days he sent for Gary to take him back to his boat. He wouldn’t stay in hospital, though he must have known he was dying. Gary told me Old Peter said, I was born on a boat … I'll die on a boat. Gary was with him at the end.”

  The doorbell made them jump. Mrs Jolly went out and returned, followed by Gary and another man. Gary spoke first.

  “Marnie, hi. I’ve er, brought you a … messenger … from Old Peter. You know about …?”

  Marnie nodded and turned to the other man. “Mr Broadbent?”

  “You’re well-informed, Mrs Walker. Call me Roger.”

  “Marnie.”

  They shook hands.

  “I gather you’ve just returned from holiday.”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “And you obviously know about Old Peter.”

  “Jane’s just told me. I don’t quite see what –”

  “Perhaps I could explain. Some weeks ago he came to see me. I’d never met him up to then, though I’d seen him passing, of course. He asked me to give you something when you returned.”

  “Really?”

  “An envelope.”

  Marnie was bewildered. “Why? What was in it?”

  “He didn’t say. All he said was to give it to you and you would know what to do with it. He thought you’d understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That is the question.”

  “Do you have the envelope?”

  “Not with me. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. It’s kept in the safe in my office.”

  “Shall I come there on Monday?”

  Roger hesitated. “I know this will sound odd, but I’d prefer to give it to you here, in Little Venice. Somehow, it seems more fitting.”

  47

  Legacy

  Marnie was not surprised to see Gary waiting beside Rumpole when she arrived at ten o’clock Monday morning. She knocked on the boat’s side door. When Roger opened it and saw Gary, he raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve no objection to Gary being here,” Marnie said. “After all, he was a friend of Old Peter … to the end.”

  In the saloon Roger handed Marnie the envelope without explanation. Inside she found a single piece of lined writing paper, its message written in ballpoint, the handwriting clear and well-formed. Gary was practically stretching his neck to breaking point to try to see over her shoulder, and Marnie could sense that even Roger was consumed with curiosity.

  “I could read it out loud, but I don’t want to hold you up. Would you prefer me to take it away?”

  Roger looked serious. “Entirely your choice, Marnie, of course. It’s a private matter between you and Old Peter.”

  In the background Gary cleared his throat.

  “Okay, I’ll read it out. It starts without any greeting.”

  My family has had some documents for a very long time. I don’t know how long or how they came by them. I was once told by my grandfather that his grandfather had worked on the canals when he came to England from Ireland as a boy.

  Marnie looked up. “He was of Irish extraction?”

  Gary nodded. “Yeah. He told me he did have family over there.”

  Marnie could hear Old Peter’s voice: … the three worst things ever invented for engines … dust … no maintenance … Irishmen. Irony. She continued reading.

  When I was a young man my father passed the documents to me before he died. He told me I had to take care of them and only give them to my own family to keep them safe. I have no family now. I want you to have them. They are yours now. They may be valuable. I don’t know. You will find them on my boat. You will know what to do with them for the best. Thank you.

  The letter was signed: Peter William Gibson

  Gary broke the silence. “That’s not right.”

  Marnie turned to face him. “You don’t think I should have them?”

  “No. I mean, it’s not right that the things are on his boat.”

  Roger stared at Gary. “You’ve searched the boat?”

  Gary looked down at the letter. “No, well, not exactly searched, but I know there’s nothing on the boat, unless it’s just a small envelope or something like that.”

  Roger looked at Marnie who was rereading the letter. “Is that everything, Marnie? No mention of where to find these documents?”

  “Nothing.” She turned the paper over. “Ah, wait a minute. There’s something else. It’s very faint, in pencil.” She lifted the paper up to the window where the light was brighter. “Odd, it’s just a series of letters.”

  PSCXXI

  Gary leaned forward. “Weird.”

  Roger read it from behind her. “Perhaps it would become clear if we visited the boat. Do you have time, Marnie?”

  Gary had the keys to the grey-green boat, for safe keeping, he said. It looked as tidy as Marnie remembered it from her last visit. They began opening drawers, checking cupboards, under the bed, everywhere. Gary went out to inspect the caravan while Roger lifted up the mattress. Nothing.

  Marnie sat down and scanned the cabin. “It must be something obvious, otherwise he wouldn’t expect us to find it, which would make the whole exercise rather pointless.”

  Roger lowered the mattress and straightened the bedcover. “I agree. He obviously took a lot of trouble to make sure whatever it is wouldn’t be found by accident.”

  “These documents. Didn’t he say anything about them when he gave you the letter? What are we looking for, Roger?”

  “Goodness knows. That mention of his grandfather, it’s obviously an heirloom, deeds, perhaps. Maybe you’ll find you own property in Ireland.”

  “Why would he leave me anything like that? I hardly knew him.”

  “Believe me, Marnie, it’s not uncommon. An old man, no living family, meets an attractive young woman – I’m not implying anything, of course – and decides he’d like to make her a gift, make someone he likes happy to remember him.”

  “But I don’t deserve that.”

  Roger grinned. “That’s not the usual reaction. It’s usually: how much is it worth?”

  “This isn’t that kind of thing, Roger. I know it isn’t. He’s entrusting something to me to keep it safe, and it’s here staring us in the face, only we can’t see it.”

  “He never hinted at anything to you?”

  “We hardly spoke. He told me about canals and engines and – wait a mo’ … what kind of engine does this boat have?”

  “Engine?”

  “He once spoke to me about Lister engines. That might mean something.”

  Roger walked through towards the stern. “Gardner, vintage model, shining like new.”

  “So not a Lister. Pity.”

  Gary returned from the caravan. “Bugger all over there – oops, sorry, not the kind of language Old Peter would’ve approved of.”

  “One of nature’s gentlemen,” Marnie observed.

  “And religious,” Gary added.

  “Religious?”

  “Yeah, RC. Used to go to Mass every week. I had to get a priest to come an
d give him … what’ya call it.”

  “The last rites?” Marie suggested.

  “Yeah. Heard his confession.”

  “You didn’t happen to, er …accidentally, of course?”

  Gary shook his head. “Priest asked me to leave, heard it in private.”

  Roger lifted the cutlery tray out of a drawer and looked in. “Short of taking the boat to pieces I’m not sure what we can do here, Marnie.”

  Marnie was working her way along a small row of books, mostly technical manuals plus the odd canal guide. Her finger stopped at an old bible. She pulled it out and flicked through the pages. It was well-thumbed. She tipped it up but nothing fell out. On the saloon table Old Peter’s note lay face down. Staring up at her was the strange inscription.

  Roger saw it and made the connection at the same time as Marnie. He looked at the Bible. “A biblical reference?”

  Marnie examined the writing closely. “PS could stand for Psalm something, maybe?”

  “Yes, CXXI …one hundred … twenty … one.”

  Marnie leafed through the pages. “That’s Old Testament, isn’t it … here we are. Psalms. Ah …”

  “What is it Marnie?”

  She looked up at Roger. “It begins: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills … What hills?”

  “From whence cometh my help,” Gary murmured quietly from behind them.

  Marnie and Roger turned in surprise.

  “Did it in RE at school.” He made a dismissive gesture.

  Marnie altered her focus and lifted up her eyes. “Is that a screw up there in the ceiling, Roger, above your head?”

  “There’s one here, too,” Gary added. He ran his finger along the tongue and groove lining. The dulled brass screw head was virtually invisible among the knots in the pine. “And here’s another one.”

  Roger agreed. “It looks as if this whole section is held in place by half a dozen screws.”

  Marnie stood up for a better look. “Could it just be the way the boat’s constructed?”

  “Is Sally Ann built like that, Marnie?”

  “No idea. I’ve never thought to look.”

  “That may be the point. You don’t stand around on a boat examining the ceiling, even if it is just a few inches above your head.”

  “Before we start dismantling the whole boat, I think we ought to check the rest of the ceilings.”

  “Good idea, Gary.” Roger turned away. “I’ll inspect the galley. D’you want to try the engine room?”

  Marnie stepped round the table. “I’ll look in the sleeping cabin.”

  It took barely a minute to ascertain that only the ceiling in the saloon was held up by visible brass screws. Gary reappeared carrying Old Peter’s toolbox. They moved the furniture aside and set about unscrewing the section above their heads and the three transverse battens that held the whole panel in place. Carefully they lowered that part of the ceiling to the floor.

  Roger shook his head. “It’s just insulation. We seem to be back to square –”

  “Hang on.” Marnie knelt down. “This isn’t padding. Look, it’s folded over at the end.”

  The ceiling panel had concealed a package roughly the size of a single mattress, about three inches thick. The covering was of strong brown paper, sewn all round except for one end. Marnie unfolded it, prised it apart and peered inside.

  “It seems to be stuffed with paper. Roger, are there any scissors in that drawer? We’re going to have to cut the thread to get a better look. It’s all very tightly packed.”

  Once the sewn end was cut, they pulled the package open. Marnie lifted the top sheet of paper.

  “Old documents?” Roger asked.

  “Well, they look like new, dozens of them, hundreds, maybe.” She slid out a drawing. “This is superb draughtsmanship. Can you see a date anywhere?”

  They pulled off the whole of the outer covering and inspected the contents of Old Peter’s legacy. It contained batches of papers, many of them the size of architects’ drawings. Some smaller items were tied in bundles with black ribbon, others in large envelopes. There were letters, accounts, bills, records, notes, quantities of plans and drawings.

  The first surprise was their pristine condition. Initially Marnie thought they might be copies. But several of the working drawings bore finger-marks as if they had been handled during building works. Some had pencil notes in the margins. These were original documents, but whose?

  The second surprise came when Roger noticed the box containing the details of the job, client, drawing and project number in a corner of one of the plans. Beside the title, Engineer in charge, he read just two initials: WJ. He stared at Marnie.

  “What is it, Roger?”

  “I wonder … Are there any letters in that pile next to you, Marnie?”

  She passed him a bundle of papers. “I hope these aren’t in any sort of order.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that. Everything here will have to be indexed and filed by an expert, probably an archivist … oh, I mean, if that’s your wish, Marnie. They’re your papers, after all.”

  “I’m supposed to … know what to do with them for the best,” she reminded him. “At the moment all I can think is that – Oh my God …”

  It was the third surprise, and the biggest. With infinite care she eased a drawing out of its batch and sat staring at it.

  Roger looked up from studying the letters. “What have you … good lord …”

  Gary, who had been untying ribbons, turned to see what had taken their attention so dramatically. “Jesus Christ Almighty … oh, sorry.”

  They were staring at the drawing of an aqueduct, rising up on slim pillars from the floor of a valley to form graceful arches, the whole construction depicted in every detail, the ink as clear as on the day the aqueduct was built. For this drawing had been produced at that time by the man who had designed it.

  In her head, Marnie heard a voice, an old voice, speaking slowly and precisely. You like ... structures?

  “It can only be …” Roger shifted round for a better look. “It has to be …”

  Gary agreed. “Yeah, the one with the funny name.”

  “Pontcysyllte.” Marnie made a pretty good job of it.

  “That’s the one,” Roger said. “But all these papers can’t just relate to one aqueduct.”

  “No. I think they relate to quite a few different projects. These seem to be a whole collection. My goodness, the papers of William Jessop.”

  Roger corrected her. “The lost papers of William Jessop, if I’m not mistaken, missing for almost two hundred years.”

  “Must be worth a bob or two.” Gary looked up from reading one of the letters to find Marnie and Roger staring at him again. “I only meant –”

  “It’s all right, Gary. We know what you meant.”

  Roger got up from his knees and sat in a chair. “I suppose the next thing is, you have to decide what to do with them, Marnie.”

  Marnie frowned. “But it isn’t as easy as that. There are all sorts of questions to be answered. How did Old Peter come by them in the first place? Are they really his? What’s best for them? How should they be treated? What’s their value?” She glanced across at Gary. “I mean, in historical terms.”

  Roger steepled his fingers. “Well, as a solicitor, I’d say it would be difficult for anyone else to prove title to them after all this time. As far as I know they’ve never been reported as stolen.”

  Marnie got up. “But equally, Old Peter’s family surely can’t prove ownership.”

  “They might not have to. Of course, Jessop’s descendants – if there are any – could contest that, but they’d have to produce a will that specifically mentions these papers. They relate to work Jessop carried out under contract to a company that no longer exists. We really need advice from an expert historian.”

  “The devil’s in the detail. Isn’t that what you solicitors always say?”

  “True, Marnie, but I think one thing is fairly clear. There�
�s no evidence to suggest Old Peter’s family misappropriated them. They haven’t used them for gain. Quite the opposite. They’ve acted as their custodians, it appears, for generations. The country owes them a debt of gratitude.”

  Marnie sat down, staring at the pile of documents at her feet. None of them spoke for some time. Eventually Marnie broke the silence.

  “You’re right, Roger. And I think I know exactly what to do with them.”

  Gary had to leave Marnie and Roger on Old Peter’s boat to see a man about a job.

  By twelve-thirty he was back in Little Venice meeting Sheena outside the chemist’s for lunch. He was taken aback when she suggested the pub round the corner – Gravel’s pub – but he let her have her way. Sheena was more definite about everything since her return from the course and her holiday. She knew what she wanted and expected to get it. Gary put it down to her new position of responsibility as assistant pharmacist (trainee).

  Approaching the bar, Gary glanced in the direction of Gravel’s usual table, which was always vacant these days. He froze. On that day it was occupied. He saw the black leather jacket, the shaved head, the ear-ring. Three men were sitting there and, as he looked on, one of them rose from the table. Gary struggled to keep his expression neutral. At that moment, the shaved head turned and called out to the man heading for the bar.

  “Das Bier muß schön warm sein, Helmut. Nicht vergessen!”

  They all three laughed. It was not Gravel. Bikers. German, Gary thought.

  Sheena had spotted an empty table in the corner. Gary left her reading a menu and went to order drinks.

  “So where’s our friend, then, Benny? Where’s Gravel?” Benny looked up from pulling a pint. Before he could speak, Gary continued. “And don’t give me all that I’ve-no-idea-who-you-mean crap … Dave Naylor.”

  Benny spoke quietly, watching the beer glass. “Oh, I know who you mean, Gary.”

  “Well, then?”

  “He’s done a Sheena.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Gone on a mystery holiday.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I heard he’d gone off to the country where they take the siesta.”