by Annie Murray
The worry was there, always, the deep pang of dread. So long as she didn’t fall with another child. Not yet. Preferably not ever. But please God – she repeated the prayer she’d made in the church at Longford – no more babbies for a long time yet.
Three
The trip down to Oxford was always Maryann’s favourite. The cut followed a beautiful, winding route along the toes of hillsides, past Braunston and round the curves south of Napton, where the sails of the ruined mill on the hill appeared then disappeared with each bend, only to appear again unexpectedly a few wiggles later. They were blessed with glowing autumn days, early morning mists over the water, berries clustered red in the hedgerows and early frosts.
This route was the first Maryann had ever travelled with Joel and his father, many years ago now, it seemed to her, when as a desperately unhappy child she’d run away from home and asked to stay on the boat with him. There were always ghosts of her former self along the way. There were also, along the route at Claydon, Cropredy, Fenny Compton, the familiar faces of lock-keepers and lengthsmen and their families, other boat families and smiles and hellos from behind the counters of pubs, tiny grocer’s shops, and bakeries, greetings of ‘Nice to see you down this way again!’ and exclamations at the sight of the twins. Sometimes the cut and its people felt like an extended family, one in which Maryann had always done her utmost to try and belong and be accepted.
Joel knew this section of the cut so intimately that a newly felled tree, a section of the path more or less overgrown than usual or a silted bend in need of dredging where the propeller struggled and threatened to go aground – all these details he noticed at once. And it was this cut, the Oxford, which Maryann knew gave him the most poignant reminders of what had been lost. Though he seldom spoke of it, she knew it cut Joel to the heart that the old ways were slipping into the past: that he was no longer a Number One like his father had been, with his own boat, a king of the cut, gliding along silently, accompanied not by the relentless grinding of the engine, but pulled by a horse, its hooves and the chink of the harness or flick of a rope the only sounds, except for those of animals and birds and the swish of water. There were certainly compensations for working for an agent like Samuel Barlow, one of which was not having to chase loads. Essy sorted those out, as well as maintaining the boats and paying tolls and insurance. For Maryann these seemed adequate compensation. They still had the Esther Jane, after all. But for Joel being owned, having S.E. Barlow painted across the panel of the Esther Jane amid her roses and castles instead of the name Bartholomew and No. 1 – no, she knew there wasn’t a day that passed without him still thinking of this painfully.
It wasn’t just ownership. The demise of horse-pulled boats meant that a way of life which had previously supported all sorts of other tradesmen – stable hands, saddlers, blacksmiths – was also disappearing. A number of them had gone off to war. Even some of the lock-keepers were now in the ARP. Though the cut was now busier than it had been for years, friendly faces were gone. And Joel had plenty of time to brood on the fact as he steered the monkey boat up front, still with the proud, upright stance of a Number One, but feeling aggrieved, diminished inside.
When the boats were empty they travelled with the butty tied up close behind the motor, which meant that the butty needed little steering. This was usually not for long, between dropping off one load and collecting another, and Maryann made the most of her hands being free to get ahead with cleaning or cooking and feeding the twins. The Theodore was their family butty now since, not having a motor on board, the cabin was a little bigger. So when she wasn’t steering she could duck inside and put the kettle on or see to the babies’ napkins.
Once there was a load on, however, the butty was towed further behind, the snubber or towing rope extended seventy feet between the two, and it was necessary to steer almost all the time to prevent the butty veering from side to side, out of control. On a long pound with no locks Bobby came back and steered, jumping off the Esther Jane under a bridge-hole where the cut narrowed right down, then leaping easily onto the Theodore as it came past.
Without Bobby life would have been impossible. Even before Ada and Esther were born, Maryann found the days a long succession of strains and stresses. There never seemed to be a moment when she could relax. As well as keeping the boats moving and steering, there were constant thoughts of Oh, I must make a cup of tea or I must get the dinner on, or the stove and floor need cleaning, or Sally and Ezra are bored and roaring on the cabin roof. Not to mention all the washing, mending and shopping she had to to catch up with when they stopped to unload. She had forced herself to develop the other boatwomen’s ability to perform several tasks all at once. Everyone did it – there was no choice. You’d tuck the helm, or ‘elum’ as the boaters called it, under one arm, and with the dipper full of water and potatoes on the roof, stand and peel them as you went along. Or you’d sew or splice ropes – whatever was needed. There was one woman she saw sometimes with a sewing machine in action on the cabin roof while she steered her butty boat.
This particular trip they had a ‘good road’. There were so many possible calamities and delays on the cut – clogged propellers, other boats stuck in locks or bridge-holes when the water was low, locks all set against you, not to mention foul weather – that they had developed a patient fatalism which overlay the general need to get a load on and keep moving.
They reached Juxon Street Wharf in Oxford a bit later than hoped, after a delay on the second day with a snarled propeller south of Duke’s cut. As the men began unloading, Maryann set off, a twin under each arm and Sally and Joley beside her, to go and ‘find Granddad’. The chores could wait a few minutes while she went to the little terraced house in Adelaide Street nearby to tell old Darius Bartholomew that they’d tied up at the wharf. The old man never missed possible moment on his old home, the Esther Jane. The door was opened by his sister, Mrs Simons, a rosy-cheeked, sweet-natured woman, who still had a look of the boatwoman she once was, her stout body dressed in a dark blue skirt, topped by a rusty red woolly. Her feet were pushed into baggy old slippers to ease her bunions.
‘Oh, hello, moy dear! Oh, my goodness me, look what we have here?’ She gazed, astonished at the sight of Maryann’s face smiling out between those of the two babies. ‘Come in, come in! Hello, Joley, Sally, Ezzy –how’re you, moy dears? Darius – look who’s here! You’ll be wanting to see! – Come on through – he’s having a snooze by the fire,’ she added.
Though Mrs Simons had not lived on the cut for many years now, her backroom looked like a home from home, a larger version of a narrowboat cabin, with its gleaming range and colourful peg rug, and plates, their filigreed edges threaded with ribbons, and photographs and brasses displayed all over the walls. Maryann’s father-in-law was getting out of his chair by the fire. Darius was in his shirt sleeves and adjusted his braces as he smiled shyly. Maryann was always delighted to see him. He looked just the same, she thought, lined face suntanned even in winter, the white beard and long white hair round his bald crown, the same sinewy, if slightly stooped stance. His deep blue eyes lit up with pleasure at the sight of them all.
‘Well now, lass – what’ve we got here?’ Though he knew Maryann had been expecting, this was the first time they had been to Oxford since the girls arrived.
‘Look at these two!’ Alice Simons exclaimed. ‘Here, your arms must be pulled out of their sockets. Put them down on my chair!’ Maryann laid the girls down and they kicked and gazed round, stimulated by the faces looking down at them. Esther smiled and blew bubbles. Ada kicked and moved her head, trying to see everything.
‘This one is Esther,’ Maryann said softly. The old man’s wife, Joel’s mother, his ‘best mate’ for years on the cut, had been called Esther Jane. When she died, he had renamed the boat in her honour. ‘And this is Ada.’
A wistful smile appeared on the old man’s face. He watched the babies, fascinated.
‘Two of them,’ he said eventually. He sh
ook his head in wonder. ‘With the best names.’
Tears came into Maryann’s eyes. She could tell how moved this reserved old man was at the sight of his granddaughters and she loved him for it. He stood for a long time, eyes fixed on them.
‘Bonny,’ he said eventually. ‘Very bonny, the pair of ‘em.’ As he passed Maryann, for a second she felt his hand pressed warmly on her shoulder. He went to the front and they heard him putting on his jacket and old trilby. The front door opened and closed. Darius didn’t want to be away from the Esther Jane a moment longer.
‘Well now,’ Mrs Simons said, ‘we’ll have a nice cup of tea. Let those men do the stroving – you stay here and have yourself a rest, moy dear.’ She filled the kettle and set it on the range, where it whispered as it heated up. ‘Now – I want a nice long hold of these lovely babies.’
They passed a happy hour together. Joley and Sally always enjoyed the novelty of being in a house, which seemed like a palace to them in comparison with the Theodore. Mrs Simons found them some bits and pieces to play with and they went out the back to see the chickens. Maryann settled contentedly with the old lady, who had always been kindness itself to her. Whenever they came to Oxford, Maryann felt she was truly coming to see family. Alice had been heartbroken for them when they’d lost Harry.
Alice Simons cuddled Ada and Esther in turn, talking to them, making them smile. When they started squalling she handed them back to be fed.
‘Our Nancy’s expecting again,’ Maryann told her. ‘Pleased as punch about it she is.’ Nancy and Darius had been working the Grand Union a lot recently and hadn’t been down to Oxford.
She had Alice Simons’s immediate attention. ‘Oh well, isn’t that nice! Marvellous. You girls’ve been such a blessing to Esther’s boys. She keeping all right, is she? And how’re you managing, Maryann dear?’
‘Oh – I’m all right,’ Maryann said. There was a silence. The clocked ticked. She so longed to pour out her worries to someone. She’d met boatwomen who’d brought up fifteen children, more even, on the boats. Was that what Joel wanted? Children and more children in a never-ending line? She had some better days now, but come the hard winter, the times of heavy rain, of ice, she knew she’d start to feel herself sliding under it all again.
Hesitantly she said, ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage if we have any more, though.’
‘Oh no, dear.’ Alice Simons snapped to attention, sitting forward to perch on the edge of her chair. ‘Dear me, no. Thin as a railing you are already. No – childbearing’s all very well in its place, but you have to call a halt somewhere. My mother died after she’d had her eleventh. I saw her slip away – worn out she was, with it all. Now you know I was the eldest daughter, so of course I was landed with it all.’ She shook her head.
Maryann thought bitterly for a second of her mother. Even if Flo had been prepared to see her, she’d never’ve been able to talk about anything like this. There’d be no sympathy there. Flo’s attitude was always, ‘I’ve had to suffer, so why shouldn’t you?’ Since she’d met Alice Simons, though, the old woman had always been on her side.
‘I wasn’t having that – not for me,’ Alice went on. ‘When I met moy William down here and we was wed I told him straight: “William, I said, “I’m not marrying you to be a brood mare like my mother.” Well – as you know, we had the three, and they was enough for me. Quite enough.You want to look after yourself, dear.’
Maryann looked down at the colourful peg rug by the range, longing to ask the unspoken question which now hung between them. But how did you keep from having any more?
‘Joel’s a good boy – I’ve always said so,’ Alice Simons was saying. ‘I know the men in my family and we’ve never had a bad ’un. Not really. But they’re men – you know what I’m saying, dear.’ Maryann could feel a blush rising up her neck to her ears. What was Mrs Simons going to say next?
Just then Sally ran in from the back, her coat flying open, and clearly full of excitement.
‘Them hens want some food!’ she said. ‘Can Joley and me give them some corn?’
Maryann clenched her hands, desperation rising in her. The moment was lost. She couldn’t ask now.
‘You go out to the privy,’ Alice Simons said. ‘And you and Joley take a couple of handfuls from the bag out there. Let Ezzy have a go too, there’s a good girl. Shut the back door now!’
Sally’s boots clattered out again in a great hurry.
Alice Simons leaned forward. ‘I wouldn’t normally say such a thing –’ she touched Maryann’s arm – ‘because I know people don’t go for talking about it. P’raps they should,’ she added fiercely. ‘Only I don’t want to see you waning away in front of my eyes.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You’ll have to have a word with Joel and get him to change his habits. You have to get them to pull back before they goes the whole way. That way you don’t catch, see?’
The blush had taken over what felt like Maryann’s entire body by now, but she looked back at Alice Simons with gratitude.
‘Are you sure? Oh – I don’t know if Joel…’
‘Well, tell him it’s that or nothing,’ Alice said with a sniff. ‘That’ll make him think.’
Maryann looked down again, trying to imagine. Is that really how you do it? she wondered. Joel gets so carried away. How am I going to ask him to stop?
But she heard the urgency in Alice Simons’s voice as she spoke again. ‘Sometimes what it comes down to is it’s them or you. And you don’t want these children growing up without their mother, do you?’
Four
Old Darius Bartholomew was up to watch them pull away from Juxon Street Wharf early the next morning. Maryann saw him fade into the mist of an Oxford dawn, his face lined by time, just standing still in his coat and hat, eyes fixed on the boat as it moved away, putt-putting gently past the other moored craft. The sight of him wrung Maryann’s heart, as she knew it did Joel’s.
‘He goes down to the wharf every day,’ Mrs Simons told Maryann each time they visited. ‘Every day without fail. Stands there watching. Poor Darius – he’d give anything to be young again.’
Maryann feared that the same fate – being left behind on the bank – would befall her husband and perhaps at a much earlier age. Joel’s chest was weak from a dose of gas in the last war so his health was fragile. She had come to dread winter and the first cough. The crackling wheeze in his chest, which was always there, even in summer, was made far worse by the wet and cold which crept up on them through the autumn. She always hoped for Indian summers and mild winters, dreading his racking coughing fits, the risk of him falling so sick he could no longer work his boats. It was too painful to imagine Joel stranded on the bank with that deep, longing look she saw in his father’s eyes. Darius, at least, was old. He had known it would come to him one day and he still had the comfort of knowing that his two sons and their families were working the cut.
They loaded a cargo of stone for Birmingham. The following days were wet, and in parts where the locks were widely spaced Maryann sat in the Theodore with the children, while Bobby took the helm. In between her chores she tried to teach Joley his letters.
‘Oh, Mom, do I have to?’ he’d complain as she tried to get him to stay at the table with a scrap of paper and a pencil.
‘Just sit still for a minute and have a go,’ Maryann urged. ‘You don’t want to grow up and not be able to read, do you?’
Joley shrugged, resting his chin wearily on his hand as if to say, ‘Oh well, if I have to.’ Maryann was unusual in being a woman on the cut who was a ‘scholar’. Having been brought up on the bank, she had been to school until she was fourteen. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like not to understand any of the signs in the shops or to read a newspaper, and she wanted her children to be able to do the same as her. But, to Joley, what counted in his everyday life was being able to catch a rope, jump on and off a boat or have the strength to shaft the fore end off the mud. Why did he need to know letters? With a long-suffering air
he wrote his name, JOEL BARTHOLOMEW, laboriously with the stub of pencil, tongue curled back over his top lip. She taught him to write THEODORE and ESTHER JANE and the names of other boats they passed, which he did under sufferance, wriggling wrestlessly all the time he was made to sit on the bench. Sally was quite different. Her clear blue eyes took in everything and even at three she had been keen to copy everything, struggling to mark erratic lines on the paper. At five, now, she had overtaken her brother.
‘Look – I’m writing!’ she’d proclaim proudly. Joley would scowl at her eagerness, and Maryann often found it tempting not to bother with him and to concentrate on Sally. But Maryann was determined that all her children would at least be able to read and write. What if they didn’t spend all their life on the cut?
Those first days of the trip the rain fell and fell. Joel was delighted. The cut was low, the ‘bottom too near the top’ as some of the boaters put it. At least they weren’t pumping out water to put out fires as they had in Birmingham and Coventry during the bombing, but it was never good news when the water level fell and Joel was glad to see some water coming in. They pushed on through the wet. Once they were well into the Midlands, though, the rain stopped and the sky cleared. By the time they reached the bottom of the great flight of Hatton locks up to Warwick, the afternoon was bathed in mellow autumn sunshine, weeds and grass shining with water droplets and the air heavy with moisture.
Maryann was at the helm, with Bobby on the bank ahead, lock-wheeling. Another pair of boats had gone up ahead, which meant that the locks would all be set against them. Maryann sighed. For a few seconds she dashed down into the cabin, brewed tea and fetched Joel’s soaked corduroy trousers to lay on the cabin roof in the sun. When she came out, she could see Joel signalling to her that he was going to tie up and wait for another pair to come down. Even when the locks were set for them it was a good two to three hours’ work getting to the top of Hatton. The great flight of locks, the ‘Stairway to Heaven’, towered above them, the black and white beams of the gates and the paddle ratchets rising up the hill towards the sky, looking as if they were stacked on top of one another. The combined rise of the twenty-one locks would lift them almost a hundred and fifty feet to the fringes of Warwick.
