Water Gypsies

by Annie Murray

  Opening her eyes, she turned slightly towards him. There was nothing to see. The lights were out in the cabin, checked curtains drawn across the bedspace.

  ‘My girl … My lovely… ’ He was easing up her shift, kissing her breasts, and she stiffened against him. She was alarmed at herself. Hadn’t she always loved his caresses? Loved being held and cuddled close? Making love with Joel was such a solid, reassuring thing. She loved lying with him in the cosy light from the lamp, taking time to look into his face, stroking the strong hairs of his beard, seeing the love in his eyes. She would run her hand across the firey hair on his chest, down over his belly, its comforting softeness into which she could burrow, teasing, nuzzling, yet tight like a drum when he tensed. She had been so afraid at first, at the thought of lovemaking, after her stepfather. But she had pushed those memories away, buried them deep and learned how to love Joel.

  And yes, she did love him, with all her heart, and would have turned to him happily, tired as she was, if it was not for the thought of another child. She lay beside him stiffly, frightened to respond. She couldn’t face all that again. Not the sickness, the feeling so done in that sometimes she nearly fell asleep at the helm of the butty, the gruelling agony of birthing them … and all that even before the constant worry of their little lives. Of them toppling off the boats, catching in the locks, or falling sick like their poor Harry, who never got better.

  ‘Joel?’ she whispered. ‘I can’t. Not another babby. Not yet.’

  He nuzzled her, stroking her belly. It was stretched now, used. A place for people to stop in for a while, she thought, like a cabin. She felt like a battered old boat, trying to keep moving on.

  ‘You won’t, will you? Not so quick after the last?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she pleaded. She knew nothing about how her body worked, what she could do to keep things under control.

  Joel lay back with a long sigh which cut right through her. Her ghosts, her insecurities, crowded in. She hated to hurt him, to refuse him anything. She knew how kind he was, how loving. He didn’t complain about any of her shortcomings. But what he called his ‘bit of loving’ was so important to him. He never tired of her: she was his wife and he needed it from her. What if she couldn’t give it to him? What then? He had taken her in, saved her, and her greatest fear was that of being without him.

  ‘Joel?’ She reached over and kissed him and Joel took this as a sign that he should continue. They clung together in the darkness and soon she heard his quick gasps of need and pleasure as he moved on top of her, and she felt the bite of him entering her, that pain of the first time after a birth. But the sharpness did not last and she held him close as he rested in her afterwards. He laughed softly, close to her ear.

  ‘Back to normal,’ he whispered. ‘My dear one. With our lovely family. We’ll make Number Ones out of them again – you’ll see. We will.’

  His arm round her waist, he fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.

  The next day they set out to take coal to Birmingham. Bobby Jenks, a twenty-year-old lad from another boating family, had been working with them for a couple of years. Working a motor and butty two-handed with children had soon proved too much for Maryann. ‘Bow-hauling’ the butty, having to haul it by hand with ropes into locks, was almost too much for her small frame, and she worried constantly about the children’s safety. They needed a third hand. They’d had a succession of helpers, but now Bobby had stuck – he was a good worker who’d been steering boats solo by the age of seven or eight. He was a strong, cheerful lad, with a head of wild hair and a sudden, cheeky smile. His family, the Jenks, were a much respected family of Number Ones who had been working boats for generations, but had now also sold out to Samuel Barlow. Bobby had been schooled in the true boatman’s qualities of agility and hard work, as well as a quiet courtesy, and Maryann had never had any problems with him joining them. Though she was only a few years older, she had developed a motherly fondness for him.

  Joel had worked short trips with the monkey, or motor boat, during those weeks. Maryann stayed tied up at Sutton Stop to get to grips with looking after two extra children and to go and be churched in the parish of Longford. One day, when Nancy and Darius tied up there again, she was able to leave the twins with Nance and go into Coventry to collect new ration books and indulge in a beautiful long soak in the public baths. She knew she’d had more rest than most boatwomen had after their births.

  The twins took it out of her good and proper and she often felt weak and tired, but Nance had been a marvellous support. Darius had left her with them for a couple of days, working his boats two-handed with a lad on board, and she helped Maryann stove the cabins and scrub and clean them. She’d washed the curtains and crochet work, hanging them in a flapping line along the Theodore to dry in the August sunshine, then polished the brass strips on the chimneys and knobs on the doors.

  Maryann sat feeding the babies, watching helplessly, but with relief and gratitude as Nance whisked about, while Joley, Sally and Ezra played with Darry, Sean and Rose on the bank. Darius had tied a rope to the branch of a tree and knotted a stick onto the bottom to serve as a seat. The older ones were having a fine time, swinging and whooping as they did so.

  ‘You can start off nice and fresh now, can’t you?’ Nance said, blacking the stove.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ Maryann said, gloomily wondering to herself how long it would last. What’s the matter with me? she asked herself. She never seemed to feel she could get on top of things somehow. She’d wanted to keep such high standards on the boats, like some of the boatwomen whose curtains and pinners were immaculate, their brasses winking in the sun against the bright colours of the boats. She dreaded their scorn. They seem to accept her because she had married Joel, who was so respected, one of the old families of Number Ones who owned their own boats, even though the declining trade had forced them to sell out to Essy Barlow before the war.

  ‘You’ll soon pick up,’ Nance said. ‘Eh —’ she turned to look at Maryann, cloth in hand – ‘I hope Darius’s going to get us a load up to Brum one of these days. I want to go and see our mom.’

  Maryann nodded. She couldn’t say she felt the same about seeing her own mother.

  ‘Still gives me a shock when I go there – the mess! Great holes and that all over the place. I’m glad we were out of it, really.’

  They had been aware of the Blitz, of course. Who couldn’t be? And there were a few hairy nights round Birmingham, Coventry and the London docks when the bombing had come frighteningly close. But in many ways life went on much the same on the cut, war or no war, except for identity cards and ration books. The sides of the locks and the bridge-holes were painted white, and they’d had to keep the hatches closed at night and paint over the lamps on the boats for the blackout regulations, but in the countryside and along the cut things went on much as usual, except that now there was an increase in traffic. More loads to fuel the war effort: to make munitions and vehicles, to build air strips and shadow factories.

  They travelled into Birmingham from the north side, along the Bottom Road or Birmingham-Fazeley Canal. Maryann knew this was most people’s least favourite trip. They came in from the collieries, their boats loaded up and low in the water. Once they’d got past Minworth, coming into Brum, the cut became more and more filthy, walled in by factories and warehouses and built over so heavily that it seemed steeped in muck and gloom. On top of that the locks were all single, so instead of being able to breast up the motor and butty side by side and put them through, the butty had to be bow-hauled in with a rope, which was exhausting. Thank heavens they had Bobby with them!

  It was here you could see a few more signs of the war. She caught glimpses of fat, fish-shaped barrage balloons in the sky. As the city closed in, she was filled with an increasing sense of unease. Her mother still lived here and her two brothers, and it was where she came from, yet Birmingham could always arouse the painful memories buried inside her, which she tried strenuously never to thi
nk about. Above all, she dreaded ever seeing him. What was he calling himself these days? she wondered. To her he had been Norman Griffin, undertaker, wrecker of her family, thief of her childhood, and the man responsible for her sister’s death. He had disappeared afterwards, and none of them knew where he was. But he must be somewhere, could easily still be in Birmingham.

  Once, just once after all this time, she thought she saw him. It was a few months ago when they were tied up at Tyseley, one smoky, drizzling winter night. A figure walking along the wharf caught her eye, making her freeze inside. Moving along the row of warehouses ahead of the boats was a dark figure, burly, hat pulled down so that she could see nothing of his face except the glowing tip of a cigarette. There was something in the build, the gait … Maryann stepped down onto the coalbox and peered out.

  ‘Mom – what’re you doing?’ Joley asked, puzzled at his mother bobbing in the hatches.

  ‘Nothing – just eat your piece,’ she snapped.

  Narrowing her eyes, she watched, heart thumping, as the figure moved further along then out of sight. Joley had squeezed in front of her.

  ‘Who was that?’ he said, following her gaze.

  ‘No one, Joley. Come on – let’s see if we can find a scrape of jam to go with that, eh?’

  It was ridiculous, she knew. He was long gone with his foul, cunning ways. With his disfigurement he wouldn’t be able to con his way into another family to trap its daughters in fear and shame. Margaret had seen to that. Little Margaret, whose widowed mother had innocently taken on the ‘respectable Mr Lambert’ as he was calling himself then, after he left Maryann’s mother. Margaret, whom he had pushed past the bounds of sanity. Margaret, who was in the asylum now … The feelings began to rise in her, swelling until her very veins seemed ready to burst with rage, with shame. She was breathing as if she had been running. No, she must push this away! All the memories he brought with him of her past, of her dead sister Sal. That wasn’t the man she saw – it was a mistake. Norman Griffin belonged to the past and there he must stay. Ever since that day she had frozen out those thoughts. She was never going to think about the past again.

  When they tied up that afternoon at Tyseley Wharf, she left the babies and Ezra with Joel and took Joley and Sally with her to pick up groceries, the ration books pushed into her pocket. As they crossed the wharf, she caught sight of a gangling young man in dark clothes which appeared too large for him passing in through the gates. Tucked under his arm was a thick, black book.

  Sally tugged on her arm. ‘Who’s that?’

  Maryann barely glanced at him. ‘Dunno. Some holy Joe I s’pose. Come on – let’s get going.’

  They shopped as fast as the queues and length of young children’s legs would allow. Sally solemnly carried the bread. Joley staggered along, insisting he could manage the vegetables. At seven years old, he was already very strong.

  ‘Now then,’ Maryann said, ‘shall we go and see Mr Osborne?’

  Joley and Sally perked up.

  ‘Will he have summat for us?’ Joley asked.

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ She grinned at them. ‘I think Mr Osborne must have filled his cellar with sweeties before the war like a squirrel, don’t you?’

  Mr Osborne owned a butcher’s shop in one of the streets near the wharf. Maryann had switched to buying her meat from him over the past few months as she found him so cheerful and kind that she always looked forward to seeing him. He made a point of remembering their names, invariably had a treat to offer the children and tried to stretch the ration for her as far as possible, unlike some other shopkeepers, who would scrimp on it. He seemed to have taken a shine to her, so that now Joel teased her whenever they reached Tyseley. ‘Off to see your fancy man then?’ and she’d protest, ‘He’s old enough to be my father, you daft thing!’

  Osborne’s shop had an entry along one side and Joley and Sally always liked to run up and down it. Houses, with their warrens of entries and back yards, were an exciting novelty for them, coming off the cut.

  ‘Come on,’ Maryann scolded. ‘I want to get home today!’

  The shop window was bare, denuded of its peacetime array of joints and chops. It was hard to get hold of anything but essentials these days. As the door opened with a ‘ping’, they walked into the smell of meat and sawdust and saw that Mr Osborne still had a decorative pig’s head on the counter with an apple in its mouth, something that always fascinated the children.

  ‘Ah, hello there!’ Mr Osborne cried. He was a short, comforting looking man in his white overall, balding crown lapped by soft white hair. Despite his friendliness he had a hesitant, shy way with him, barely meeting Maryann’s eyes, but he was always very attentive towards the children.

  ‘Down at the wharf again then? Seems a long time since you were last here. Now, you youngsters, before your mother and I get down to business, how about a chocolate lime each?’

  Joley and Sally nodded with delighted smiles.

  ‘Thought you must be sold out as there’s no queue,’ Maryann said as he handed out the pale green sweets.

  ‘Oh – never you fear.’ Mr Osborne went briskly back behind the counter, while Joley and Sally drew patterns in sawdust with their feet across the black and white tiles.

  ‘There, just a bit extra,’ he said, eyeing the scales as he weighed her mince and began parcelling it up. ‘Everyone well on board?’

  ‘Yes – thanks.’ She told him about the twins and Mr Osborne went quite soppy, marvelling at the thought. ‘No wonder you look tired. I thought there was something – dark rings under the eyes. Well, well. Bring them in and let me see them next time, won’t you? Nothing like new, young life.’

  Maryann asked after Mrs Osborne. The couple lived a few streets away rather than over the shop.

  ‘It’s the smell, you see,’ Mr Osborne had explained once. ‘It’s a silly thing, really, but the wife’s almost a vegetables-only sort of eater. We’re a bit like Jack Sprat and his wife! She can’t tolerate the smell, you see, not living here … So I rent out the upstairs, off and on.’

  ‘Anyway.’ He smiled now. ‘I’m glad all’s well. What’re the names of your boats again?’

  ‘The Esther Jane and the Theodore,’ Joley and Sally piped up.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he laughed. ‘Now –’ he held up one finger like a magician about to perform his most demanding act – ‘I’ve got something special for you. A little treat – no charge.’

  Disappearing out the back for a moment he returned with a male pheasant, fully feathered.

  ‘Here we go – no questions asked. Have that to be going on with.’

  It was the season, of course. Out in the country they kept hearing the sharp squawk of the birds across the fields. If they’d had a dog they could have nipped one in the bag more often, but they only had cats now. Jep the old dog had died years back. And all food was welcome.

  ‘Thanks ever so much,’ she said, taking the dead weight of the bird from him across the counter. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything for it?’

  ‘No, no. Growing family you’ve got…’ He seemed almost bashful. ‘Will you be coming up this way again soon?’

  ‘Oh – you never know.’ She gave the children a look that indicated it was time to go. ‘Pick up your bags,’ she told them. ‘We can never be sure where we’ll be off to next.’

  ‘See you again, then,’ he said.

  They pinged their way out, Maryann saying, ‘Ta for the bird,’ once more.

  ‘I think he must like us,’ she said to the children as they headed back to the wharf. ‘Not sure why, though.’

  ‘I think he likes us, not you,’ Sally said smugly. ‘He gives us sweets, not you.’

  ‘Huh!’ Maryann said indignantly. ‘He gave me a pheasant, didn’t he?’

  ‘He says there was a bloke round looking for you!’

  The lad ran out of the toll office the next morning, urgent with a message which he had remembered at the last minute. He
pursued the butty, shouting to Maryann.

  ‘Me?’ Maryann squinted across at him, with Esther held in one arm and the tiller under the other. ‘Oh – ta. That’ll be my brother. If he comes again, tell him I’ve had twin girls. I’ll drop him a line when I get a minute!’

  The boat slid away faster, her words unfurling behind it. She attempted a weary smile, as Bobby, who had been checking the snubber, climbed back towards her over the sheeted-up planks and took the tiller. Her younger brother Tony was the one person in her family she had any contact with now. She didn’t know if the message would get through, but it was nice to think of him coming to look. It gave her a feeling of ties, however slim. Joel’s family, the surviving members of the Bartholomews who had not been taken by war or sickness or the dangers of the cut, shared strong bonds. Being with them made her feel safe and protected.

  Maryann stood in the hatches for a few moments cradling Esther, while Bobby steered the butty. Joel, as normal nowadays, had their sons aboard the Esther Jane with him. Sally was on the roof of the Theodore next to the chimney, smudging her fingers in the dust and murmuring to herself. The cut was busy with joeys and other working pairs, and the sounds of traffic clattering over bridges, a train, a screech of metal from a nearby works, filled the air. It was a beautiful, early autumn morning, and even the weary, soot-choked walls, the glamourless industrial buildings cramped shoulder to shoulder, took on a pleasing mellowness in the rich light. A feeling of sudden, swelling contentment rose in her and after the past weeks of feeling so drained and tired she felt more optimistic. The night had not been so bad – she had only been up once with the girls – and with more sleep and in the freshness of morning she looked at her old home with fondness and a touch of regret.

  It’ll be all right, she thought. At least today. I can manage today… She didn’t want to count her chickens too soon, but it was a moment of lightness after so many exhausting weeks. She saw Joel ahead of her and watched him tenderly, doing so expertly what he had always done. What he was born for. Nothing like this life, she thought, suddenly full of optimism. Maybe I can manage. I can get by, so long as…