A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  ‘Sure Oi’m sure! Yew think Oi’m bloind or stoopid? ‘Ere, bring ’er in ter the soide, Oi’ll goo see what’s afoot!’

  Ignoring the boy’s unaccustomed rudeness, Bill took the controls, threw out the clutch lever, pulled the reversing rod, and listened to the big single-cylinder diesel slow, miss a beat, and then pick up once more its steady tonk… tonk… tonk. Now running backwards, as he threw the clutch back in, the propeller began to turn in the opposite direction, slowing the heavy boat to a halt as he steered for the bank, let the fore-end run against the edge of the towpath. As he let the stern swing in, Little Bill jumped for the side, ran forward to the bridge-hole; glancing back, Bill saw that Vi had already steered the butty into the bank, using its friction to slow the boat, preventing the towrope from going slack, getting caught in the propeller.

  ‘Dad! There’s soomeoone ’ere all roight – bring the cabinshaft!’ Bill grabbed the eight-foot-long shaft, with its hooked end, and leapt onto the bank, throwing the clutch out again as he did so. He ran, following his son’s voice, to the bridge; Billy snatched the shaft from him, reached out and snagged a dark bundle with the hook, dragged it as quickly as he could to the side. It took both of them to lift the limp body out of the icy water:

  ‘Booger! It’s joost a kid!’

  ‘Yeah…’ Little Bill’s voice was hushed.

  ‘Coom on, yew two, out o’ the way. ’Elp me get ’im inter the motor cabin, ’fore ’e freezes to death!’ Vi had come up behind them, having leapt off the butty; now, she supervised her two men as they carried the child back, lifted him onto the boat and took him carefully down into the warmth of the cabin. They sat the boy on the sidebed, opposite the heat of the range; Bill began to massage the limp, cold hands in his own. Vi took one look at the closed eyes, the slackness of his neck; she set about undoing his coat, pulling it off, then stripped the woollen jersey over his head, instructing her son over her shoulder:

  ‘Goo ‘n get some o’ Stevie’s things from the butty, they should fit ’im. Warm trousers, a shirt, ’n one of ’is thick pullovers. ’N a pair o’ thick socks!’ She called after him as he hurried to do her bidding. Fumbling with freezing fingers, Bill tried to find a pulse in the thin, cold wrist:

  ‘Yew think ’e’s still aloive, Vi?’

  ‘It woon’t be fer want of oos troyin’ if ’e ain’t, Bill.’ She stripped off the boy’s shirt, whipped his vest over his head: ‘Lay ’im down, troy ’n get some o’ the water out of ’im, will yer?’ Bill turned the boy, lay him on his back on the sidebed, turned his head to one side; but, before he could start squeezing the child’s chest to expel the water from his lungs, he gave a sharp cough, then another, and spat a mouthful of the canal onto their clean floor. The boy’s eyelids fluttered, but stayed firmly shut; Bill looked up at his wife, a delighted grin on his face:

  ‘E’s still with us, Ma!’ She smiled back:

  ‘So Oi ’ear! Now, get me the spare blanket out o’ the bed cupboard, Bill.’

  He stepped past her into the bed-hole, reached up to open the big top cupboard and pulled out their one and only spare blanket. With the half-drowned boy laid on the sidebed, Vi had taken off his shoes and socks, and was sliding his trousers down, pulling them over his bare feet. She paused; he was stripped to his underpants, now – but even they were soaked through, freezing cold. She shrugged, and pulled them off him, throwing them to join the heap of his clothing on the floor of the bed-hole:

  ‘Ere, Bill, ’elp me get ’im sat oop again!’ Between them, they eased the lad back into a sitting position; Vi gently drew the blanket around his shoulders, tucked it in around him, and sat beside him. She looked up at her husband with a mother’s smile on her face as she drew the unknown child into her arms and held him close:

  ‘If that kettle’s ’ot, Bill, mek oos soome tea, will yer? Let’s get soomat ’ot down ’im.’ He nodded, and turned in the tight confines of the cabin to reach for the teapot.

  Silence, disturbed only by the thud of the engine, reigned for a minute or two as he spooned tea into the pot, poured on the water, sought out three mugs from the table-cupboard. Little Bill returned, a bundle of dry clothing under his arm; then the boy in his mother’s arms gave another snort, began to cough long and hard, as the remaining water came up from his lungs. He slumped against her; but now his breath was coming fast and deep as his body threw off the effects of the cold and his near-drowning. Vi lifted the mug of tea to his lips, coaxed him to take a sip; and then, at last, his eyes gradually opened, a look of disbelief in them – big, grey-green eyes with curling golden lashes which matched his thick, wavy hair. ’E’s a handsome little lad, Vi thought to herself as he gazed around the cabin:

  ‘Is… Is this Heaven?’ His voice, thin and shaky, held a tone of utter disbelief. Vi laughed:

  ‘Noo, bless yew, boy! Is that where yew expected ter be?’

  ‘Er – well, yes – only…’ She chuckled again:

  ‘Yeh’re in the back cabin o’ the Acorn, young feller. Moy man, ’n moy son ’ere, they fished yew out o’ the cut.’ The boy just gazed up at her, disbelief still written in his expression. He shook his head slowly, let it fall forward until his face rested in his hands. Bill squatted under the arch of curtain which served to screen off the bed-hole, spoke softly to the boy:

  ‘What’s yer name, lad? Where’re yeh from?’ The big bright eyes lifted to meet his:

  ‘Michael…’ the boy’s voice cut off abruptly; he sat with his mouth hanging open, thoughts racing through his head: I’m not going back there!

  ‘Moichael what? ’N where do yeh live, lad?’ The boy just shook his head. Vi looked at her husband over the bedraggled golden locks:

  ‘Leave it fer now, Bill, ’e’s all shook oop. We’ll bed ’im down ’ere fer tonoight, Billy can manage in the butty wi’ the oothers.’ Bill frowned:

  ‘Oi wanted ter get on a bit more, tonoight, Ma. Boot if we do, we’ll only ’ave ter bring ’im back when ’e tells oos where ’e’s coome from!’ To his surprise, it was the boy who intervened, his voice suddenly strong and forceful:

  ‘I’m not going back there! Take me with you? Please?’ Bill and Vi exchanged startled looks; Vi shrugged her shoulders:

  ‘Pull ’em through the bridge-’ole, Dad, we’ll toy there. You ’n Billy can get a beer in the Galleon, later – ’n we’ll only be an hour be’ind in the mornin’. Then, if Moichael ’ere changes ’is moind, we can still get ’im ’ome ’fore we goo on.’

  ‘Yes – roight yew are, Ma. Coom on, Billy, let’s do as yer Ma says – Oi’m ready fer a plate o’ that stew, anyway, aren’t yew?’ Little Bill gave a heartfelt sigh:

  ‘Aye, not ’alf, Dad!’

  The two rose and climbed out of the cabin. Michael felt himself drawn back into the soft, cosy embrace of the buxom boatwoman, let himself relax; his eyes closed as he rested his head in the hollow of her shoulder: Mum used to hold me like this! But that had been a long time ago; no-one had shown him such physical affection in months, years… If I tell them who I am, they’ll send me back… He felt weariness creeping over him, sleep overtaking his brain – his eyelids drooped, closed.

  Vi held the boy, sensing his slow descent into sleep. Even the bumping of the boat, as Bill ran the pair through the bridge and tied them on the towpath opposite the pub, didn’t cause him to stir; no more did the sudden silence when he stopped the engine. When her husband looked down from the hatches, she smiled up at him:

  ‘’E’s asleep, Bill! Oi’ll leave ’im ’ere, took ’im in fer the noight – we can eat in the butty cabin.’

  ‘H’okay, Ma.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Wha’s gooin’ on, Ma?’ Stevie’s voice was eager, excited; his little brother gawped over his shoulder, eyes wide. All six Hanneys were crammed into the cabin of the butty boat; Vi, descending the step as the last one in, exchanged glances with Gracie, who’d missed it all, keeping her younger brothers out of the way while her parents and Little Bill had dealt with the em
ergency – her brown eyes too held questions:

  ‘Yer Pa and Little Bill ’ave pulled a kiddie out o’ the cut – ’e’s warmin’ oop in front o’ the range in the motor.’

  ‘E’s still aloive, then, Ma?’ The girl asked; Vi nodded, over the clamour of her two youngest asking;

  ‘Oo is ’e?’ ‘Where’s ’e from?’ ‘’Ow old is ’e?’ ‘Is ’e a boatee?’ She raised her hands in protest, shook her head:

  ‘Tek it easy, the two o’ yer! We don’t know ’oo ’e is, or where ’e’s from – ’e’s pretty shook oop, ’e can’t tell us.’ Bill’s eyebrows went up at this, but he said nothing; his wife went on: ‘E’s about your age, Stevie, Oi reckon – ’n no, ’e’s no boatee! When ’e coom to, ’e didn’t know where ’e was – ’e thought ’e’d doied ’n gone to ’Eaven!’

  ‘Cor! Oi wouldn’t call a boat cabin ’Eaven would you, Jack?’ Vi’s youngest shook his head vehemently. They started to ask more questions, but she waved them to silence before they could get a couple of words out:

  ‘We’ll foind out all about ’im in the mornin’, Oi ’spect. Now, toime fer dinner, h’okay?’

  ‘Yeah!’ five voices chorused. Vi smiled around her family:

  ‘Well, if yeh’ll all get out o’ me way, Oi’ll dish oop dinner then, shall Oi?’

  There was a hurried scramble to open a space for her to get to the range, in the corner of the cabin. Gracie opened the table-cupboard and got out six plates; Vi took them from her, placed them down on its open flap and began to ladle stew out into the top one. Filling it well, she handed it to Little Bill:

  ‘’Ere, Billy, yew go sit in the bed-’ole out o’ the way.’ He ducked under the lace curtain, sat on the locker at the side as he was told. The next plate went to Gracie; she sat in the far corner of the sidebed, pulling her two little brothers down beside her – the next two plates, a little less heavily loaded, went to the two boys. A well-filled one again, to her husband:

  ‘Oi’ll eat in the ’atches, Ma.’ He stood on the step, put his plate on the slide outside the cabin, and began to shovel the stew down with his fork. Vi tapped him on the leg, the signal that she wanted to get past him; he stood aside as she climbed out, her own plate in her hand:

  ‘Where’re yew off to, Vi?’

  ‘Oi thought Oi’d go sit with our guest, in case ’e weks oop ’n don’t know where ’e is. Oi don’t want ’im throwin’ ’imself in the cut again, not with moy only spare blanket wrapped ’round im!’ Bill gave a snort of laughter:

  ‘H’okay, Ma! Oi’ll coom see ’ow yeh’re doin’ in a minute.’

  Twenty minutes later, feeling more human again with a full stomach, Bill and his oldest son stepped across from the butty onto the motor-boat’s counter – they’d tied them up side-by-side, as was normal practice with a pair of narrowboats. Bill climbed down into the cabin, echoed his wife’s smile as she looked up at him from inside the bed-hole. Michael was curled up on the sidebed, well wrapped up in the blanket, and sound asleep, a tangle of golden hair all that was visible of him. Vi handed her empty plate to her husband; he passed it out to his son:

  ‘Tek this oover ter Gracie, will yer, Billy?’ The boy nodded, stepped back onto the butty where his sister was filling the hand-bowl with warm water from the kettle for the washing-up. Bill squatted on the step, pulling the cabin doors closed behind him:

  ‘What’re we gooin’ ter do with ’im, Ma?’

  ‘Oi doon’t know, Bill.’ She looked down at the sleeping child with the puzzled, loving expression that only a mother can put on when faced with the vagaries of youth:

  ‘If ’e was troyin’ ter drown ’imself…’

  ‘Is that what yeh think ’e was doin?’ Bill interrupted. Vi gave him a withering look:

  ‘What else was he doin’, all alone, boy the cut, on a noight loike this? ’N Billy said as ’e thought ’e’d joomped in, didn’t ’e?’

  ‘Yeah – Oi suppose…’

  ‘And think about what ’e said, Bill! Oi’m not gooin’ back there! ’E was runnin’ away from soomat, fer sure.’

  ‘Yeah… Oi s’pose yeh’re roight, Ma. But what about ’is folks? What’ll they be thinkin’? What’ll they be doin?’ Vi shook her head:

  ‘Oo knows, Bill. Mebbe ’e ain’t got any folks, mebbe ’e’s from an orphanage, or soomat. One thing’s fer sure – if ’e doon’t tell oos, we ain’t gooin’ ter know!’

  ‘Unless they coom lookin’ fer ’im, foind oos ’ere!’ She shrugged her not-insignificant shoulders:

  ‘If they do, they do.’

  ‘Boot – they moight accuse oos o’ tekin’ ’im!’

  ‘Don’t talk soft, Bill! We saved ’im – there’s ’is clothes, all soakin’ wet, ’n ’im wrapped in me best blanket! If they do coom, we’ll ’ave to give ’im back to ’em, whatever ’e thinks about it.’ Bill gave her a knowing look:

  ‘Boot not if yew can ’elp it, eh, Ma?’ Vi laughed out loud:

  ‘Yew know me too well, Bill Hanney! Oi can’t leave any o’ God’s creatures in distress, leave alone a little kiddie loike ’im. Oi don’t know what on Earth we’re goin’ ter do with ’im – boot if ’e was that desperate to get away from soomat, Oi’ll not be the one ter send ’im back, not if Oi can ’elp it!’ He shook his head, smiling helplessly:

  ‘H’okay! We’ll leave ’im be, fer now, see what termorrer brings.’ He stood up on the step, poking his head out into the bitter night, ducked down again:

  ‘It’s freezin’, now. We’ll be brekin’ oice in the mornin”

  ‘Will yer goo on any’ow, Bill?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too bad – oone noight o’ frost’ll only leave a skim on the top, ’alf an inch mebbe, ’n we can boost that h’okay. Slow oos oop, though, ’specially oop the locks – we moight be loocky ter mek Stoke Bruin.’

  Vi grunted: ‘Hnh. ’N if it freezes agen, termorrer noight, we could be stook there a whoile.’

  ‘At least we’ll be with oother folks, there. Not loike ’ere. Any’ow – Billy ’n me are gooin’ over the Galleon fer a beer – yew coomin’?’

  ‘Not tonoight, Pa. Oi’ll stay ’ere, keep an eye on this young ’un – yeh could bring me a bottle o’ stout back wi’ yeh?’

  ‘Roight-Oh Ma. We’ll not be long.’

  Bill stepped back over to the butty, collected his eldest son; the two set off over the hump-backed bridge to the old pub on the other side. Vi settled back to her vigil, watching over the sleeping child, wondering about him: Who was this small stranger who had so spectacularly landed himself on their hospitality? And what could it have been in his life, that was so terrible as to make a kid his age try to kill himself? Mebbe ’e’ll tell oos – anoother day, if not now!

  Once or twice, the boy stirred, shifted his position without waking; each time, Vi gently, lovingly, tucked the blanket back around him. It was warm in the cabin, with the range still burning, but he’d taken quite a chilling in the few minutes he’d been in the icy water: Doon’t want yer catchin’ the newmony, on top of everythin’!

  When her husband came back, let himself softly into the cabin, she smiled her thanks for the bottle in his hand. He flipped off the cap, poured the contents into a glass from the table-cupboard; Vi drank it gratefully. Gracie and the two little ones were already bedded down in the butty’s cabin; Billy had gone to join them for the night, sleeping on the floor in front of the range – usually, he occupied the sidebed in the motor’s cabin. Vi finished her stout; Bill had a last cup of tea, and then lowered the cross-bed into place. Husband and wife retired behind their curtain for the night, snuffing out the oil-lamps, leaving the boy to sleep out his shock and distress – Vi knew, as any mother does, that her instinct would warn her if he woke and needed her attention.

  Chapter Seven

  Blackness. Warm, cosy, comforting blackness. Michael’s awareness rose, oh, so slowly from the depths of sleep. Half dreaming, half waking, his body stirred, stretched; his feet hit an obstruction: I’ve wriggled right down in the
bed! He languidly pushed the bedclothes away from his face, but lay still, his eyes closed, not wanting to wake up, wishing he could sink back into the warm cosiness of sleep and not have to face the reality of his waking life.

  He was so warm! It’s still winter, isn’t it? Their unheated bedroom was always freezing cold in the mornings – he and Andrew would often amuse themselves scraping the frost from the inside of the windows. Why am I so warm? Wondering at his unexplained comfort, he let his eyes drift open; and saw nothing! Pitch blackness, not even the usual faint glow of the night sky from the window. More awake now, he reached out, and realised with a shock that he seemed to be sleeping on a shelf! Barely wider than the width of his shoulders, a wall to his left, empty space to his right, and only a thin cushion beneath him to serve as a mattress…!

  Where am I? His mind was gradually coming into focus, memory returning… The pain of yet another tirade from his father, the threat that Buster would be taken away – I walked out! And jumped in the canal… Was he dead – was this warm, comfortable blackness all that the afterlife held, was Heaven just a silly myth put about by priests and grown-ups? But no – more memories were coming back as he returned to full wakefulness: They pulled me out…

  Now, it all came back to him. The short, stocky man in the old clothes, a thick scarf wrapped around his throat, tucked into his heavy coat, a battered old hat on his head; the boy, a few years older than himself, dressed the same but without the hat; and the woman, short and round, that funny bonnet on her head, the wide, full dress and frilly pinafore… They’d saved him, dried him down, kept him warm… where? What was it she’d said: …in the back cabin of the Acorn… He was on a boat! One of the cargo boats which he would often see travelling the canal when he and some of his school-friends went to play on the towpath…!

  With that revelation, he reached out again, tentatively, exploring his surroundings by touch, pushing himself up on one elbow. He felt the gentle coarseness of the blanket against his skin, realised that he was naked under its covering; then laughed silently at his momentary sense of shock: You didn’t bring your pyjamas, Michael! He felt the wall, rising above him on one side, leaning in slightly as it rose; reached down over the other side of his strange bed, to touch a floor maybe eighteen inches below – bare wood, with a rug laid over it. Behind his head, a partition of some kind, its edge cut away in a curving shape, and below his feet another wall – if he stretched out, he would be wedged between the two. What a funny, tiny bed to sleep on!