A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  Michael had finished his, handed the plate back to Vi to have it replaced with a mug of steaming tea. Stevie’s brown eyes flicked up to him in frank curiosity as he munched on each mouthful of his breakfast; Michael looked back, trying not to feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny. Mopping a runnel of egg from his chin with the last mouthful of bread, Stevie asked:

  ‘What’s yer name, then?’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Moichael what?’

  ‘Just Michael.’

  ‘Ah. Oi’m Stevie – that’s moy Ma.’ He indicated Vi, sitting beside him as she ate her own sausage.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m pleased to meet you, Stevie.’ The brown eyes widened at such formality:

  ‘Er – yeah, Oi guess so…’

  ‘If yew two’ve finished, whoy doon’t yeh go ’n sit outsoide? Lend Miochael yer spare coat, Stevie.’

  Chapter Nine

  Ferreting in a drawer that he’d pulled out from below the sidebed, Stevie handed a heavy serge jacket to Michael. He picked up his own, and slipped it back on ready to brave the outdoor chill:

  ‘Put that on, Moichael, it’s cold enooff out ther’ ter freeze the…’

  ‘Stevie!’ The boy grinned cheekly at his mother:

  ‘It is though, Ma!’

  ‘Oi’m sure it is, but that’s noo excuse! Now git yerself out o’ moy way whoile Oi start on yer dinner!’

  Stevie led the way outside, tapping his sister on the leg to signal his wish to leave the cabin; he clambered nimbly up onto the cabintop and sat on the right hand side, his legs dangling over the edge. He reached back, offered a hand to Michael who was moving somewhat more cautiously, helped him as he scrambled rather inelegantly up to join him. Grace stepped back into the hatches, resumed her easy stance, one arm draped casually over the heavy wooden tiller; Jack had turned to stare over his shoulder from his own perch at the front of the short cabin roof.

  ‘Jackie – this is Moichael.’ The seven-year-old, big brown eyes under a thatch of dark hair a smaller echo of his brother, gazed in frank curiosity at the newcomer:

  ‘Moichael what?’

  ‘Joost Moichael.’ Stevie forestalled the subject of their discussion from answering.

  ‘Oo’s boat yew off’n, then?’

  ‘I’m not off a boat – I’ve never been on one before!’ Michael got to answer for himself this time.

  ‘Oh – wher’ yeh from, then?’ Michael hesitated, not wanting to give away more about himself that he had to – the fear that they might still insist on returning him to his parents was still in his mind, but after a moment he relaxed, realising that he wasn’t telling the boys anything they couldn’t have worked out for themselves:

  ‘Wolverton.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause, while the three boys regarded each other thoughtfully.

  ‘Yew roon away from ’ome, then?’ Jack asked. Hearing the words of that dramatic phrase spoken so bluntly set Michael back on his heels, its implications striking deep into his mind in a way that his words with Vi had failed to do; but he nodded:

  ‘Yes – yes, I suppose I have!’

  ‘Oh. Yew goona stay with oos now, then?’

  ‘We’ll ’ave teh see, Jackie’ Grace joined the conversation for the first time: ‘That’ll be oop ter Ma ‘n Dad.’

  ‘Wher’s ’e goona sleep?’

  ‘We’ll manage loike we did las’ noight, fer a whoile, if that’s all roight with yew, master Jack Hanney!’ The boy shrugged his shoulders, giving his sister a mischievous grin:

  ‘H’okay, Gracie!’ He turned his gaze back on Michael: ‘What d’yeh knoo about boatin’, then?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Like I said, I’ve never even been on one before!’

  ‘Oh!’ This time, Jack’s response held an ominous tone.

  ‘We’ll ’ave ter teach ’im, eh, Jack?’ Stevie suggested; his younger brother’s face lit into a broad smile;

  ‘Roight! Tha’ll be foon, eh?’ Both brothers beamed at their new apprentice; Michael, both pleased and nervous at the prospect, smiled back:

  ‘It’ll make a nice change from school!’ The Hanney brothers exchanged significant glances:

  ‘Yew bin ter school, then?’

  ‘Course ’e’s bin ter school, stoopid! All kids ’oo live on the bank goo ter school, don’t they, Moikey?’

  ‘That’s right, Stevie.’ Michael was amused at the other’s vigorous manner of correcting his younger sibling; and then the implications of their exchange, and of his new situation, hit him: ‘You don’t go to school?’

  ‘No – leastways, not offen. We soometoimes git teh go fer a day or two, if the boats are ’eld oop at the stop soomewher’. Boot that don’t ’appen mooch.’

  ‘So – How do you learn things? Do your parents teach you?’

  ‘What sort o’ things d’yeh mean?’ Michael could only shrug. Stevie looked at his brother for a moment, then went on: ‘We learn about boatin’, ’n the cut, ’cos we’re ’ere, see? Oi can steer the pair, breasted or on cross-straps, ’n Oi can work a lock quicker’n moy Dad!’

  ‘Soo can Oi!’

  ‘Noo yeh can’t, Jack! Yeh’re too small ter steer yet!’

  ‘Oi can steer the butty – can’t Oi, Gracie?’

  ‘Only if’n yeh’re stood on a box – yeh can’t see oover the cabin else!’

  ‘Stop it, the two o’ yeh, ’fore yeh git the back o’ me ’and!’ The grin on Grace’s face as she silenced their bickering gave the lie to her words. She turned her smile on Michael:

  ‘We don’t get mooch chance fer any proper schoolin’, livin’ on the boats, Moikey. Loike Stevie says, we moight get a day or two, now ’n then, boot it don’t amount to anythin’.’ Michael took this in, a frown on his face as he absorbed the idea; he looked around at her:

  ‘So-o…?’ Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, as dark as were her brothers’ – her voice was gentle as she explained:

  ‘So, there’s noone of oos can read ’n wroite, Moikey. Stevie’s doon quoite well, when he’s got ter goo ter the school at Bull’s Bridge – ’e can make most of ’is letters, if’n ’e troys ’ard. ’N we can all do figurin’ – we ’as teh, fer the toll tickets, see?’

  ‘But – can’t your Mum and Dad teach you?’ She laughed:

  ‘They can’t read nor wroite, neither! They didn’t get any scholarin’ when they were kids, either!’

  ‘Oh…’ Michael’s thought returned to his own situation: ‘So – if I can stay with you…’

  ‘Yew won’t be getting’ any more learnin’, Moikey! ’Cept what we teach yeh – ’bout the boatin’!’ Stevie sounded pleased at the prospect.

  ‘Doos that woorry yeh, Moichael?’ Grace asked, a concerned frown on her face.

  ‘I don’t know… My Mum’s always said I should get a good education, then I’d do better for myself when I grow up – but… I don’t know’ he repeated; then the smile returned to his face: ‘But I do want to learn all about your boats!’

  ‘Good fer yew, Moikey! We’ll show ’im, woon’t we, Jackie? We’ll be at Stoke Bruin ’fore long, ’n we can show yeh ’ow to work locks up’ill then – ’n ’ow ter toy the boats fer breastin’-oop, ’n things. Then there’s the toonnel…’

  ‘A tunnel?’

  ‘Yeah – Blizzerth Toonnel! It’s more’n a moile long, teks ’alf an hour teh goo through…’

  ‘You have tunnels on the canal, like railways?’

  ‘Yeah – ’course we do! En’t yew seen oone b’fore?’

  ‘Moikey ’asn’t bin on a boat before, remember?’ Grace reminded her brother.

  ‘Oh – Oh, yeah, Oi’d forgot.’ Stevie’s face took on a mischievous smirk, as his voice dropped to a mysterious whisper: ‘It’s ever soo dark, ’n wet, ’n spooky, insoide! They says as there’s the ghost of an ol’ boatee, ’aunts it, ’n throws things at yeh…’

  ‘Stop it, Stevie – yew knoo very well there’s noo ghost in Blizzerth! Stop troyin’ ter froighten Moikey loike th
at!’ Stevie subsided as his sister admonished him, but he threw a cheeky grin at Michael:

  ‘Not ’fraid o’ the dark, are yeh?’

  ‘No – of course not!’

  ‘What else did they learn yeh at school, then?’ Jackie asked.

  ‘Oh – arithmetic, and history, and geography, and – all sorts of things!’

  ‘O-oh!’

  A brief silence fell, while the Hanney brothers regarded their new companion with a degree of awe. Michael took the opportunity to look around him, taking in some detail of the boats which he hadn’t noticed before – the tall chimney at the other back corner of the cabin, above the place where the range stood, with its polished brass bands gleaming in the thin winter sunshine; the two big jugs, rather like enormous watering-cans to look at, which stood in front of it, brightly painted with flowers and a scene like those he’d noticed inside the cabins, the handle of a long mop poked through their own handles, its business end lying on the cabintop near the front. And the scenery through which they were passing – open fields on both sides of the canal, the low morning sun sparkling on the frosted hedges and occasional tree, the clear pale blue of the sky… A townie boy all his life, Michael experienced for the first time that lifting of the heart which the beauty of nature can bring, so much so that it made him shiver momentarily:

  ‘Yew cold, Moikey? Go in the cabin ’n git warm if yeh loike.’ He smiled at Gracie’s concern, shook his head:

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine. It’s – so pretty, isn’t it?’ He gestured at their surroundings. The girl laughed:

  ‘Oi s’pose so! We see it all the toime, so we don’ notice it any more.’ She looked around herself, then smiled back at him: ‘It is, in’t it? Boot this is wher’ we live, Moikey.’ He looked at her for a moment, absorbing the meaning of her words:

  ‘You’re so lucky, all of you!’ A thought struck him: ‘These are your boats, are they?’

  ‘They’re our’n, teh live in, yes, as long as we’re workin’ ’em. Boot they belong ter the coomp’ny.’

  ‘Oh…’ Michael bent to look between his own legs at the cabinside: ‘That’s the name on the side, is it, the company?’ She laughed:

  ‘Oi s’pose so! It’s Fellers’s – Fellers, Morton ’n Clayton, we work for. Or Pa doos, ’e’s the oone as gets paid. Coomp’ny tells ’im what ter load, ’n wher’ teh tek it, ’n pays ’im when it’s ther’ ’n unloaded.’

  ‘They have sort of managers, to tell you what to do, like my Dad does in the rail…’

  ‘Oh-ho! Yer Dad’s in the works, is ’e?’ Stevie butted in, his voice gleeful at his discovery. Grace glared at him, seeing the horrified look on Michael’s face, then said:

  ‘Boot we en’t goin’ ter tell anyone that, are we? Not unless yeh want oos to.’ Meaningful eyes still weighed on her younger brother, until he shook his head:

  ‘No – ’course not!’ Gracie’s smile returned, directed upon Michael:

  ‘Ter answer yer question, yes, Moikey. Ther’s a man at each stop wher’ we go, ’oo directs the loads, tells oos wher’ to go, what we’re carryin’. Loike Mister Vickers, at Braunston – yeh’ll meet ’im in a day or two, when we gits ther’. If this oice’ll let oos! Ma ’n Dad want ter stop ther’ a whoile – an ol’ friend o’ theirs ’ad ’is woife doie a week or two back, ’n they want ter see ’im, ’cos we missed ’er buryin’. Oi ’spect we’ll…’ She broke off, a look of revelation on her face: ‘Stevie – tek oover ’ere, will yer? Oi want ter talk ter Ma fer a minute!’

  The boy jumped up on the cabintop, made his way past Michael and slipped down into the hatches, took over the tiller as she stepped down into the cabin, a proud grin on his round face.

  Chapter Ten

  It was Michael’s turn to regard his new friend with awe, as Stevie settled comfortably over the tiller, gazing casually forward past him, to where the motor boat led the way through the broken, drifting ice. Jack was still twisted round, looking at his brother:

  ‘Can Oi ’ave a go?’

  ‘No! Gracie tol’ me ter steer!’

  ‘Oh – go on?’

  ‘Mebbe later, then.’ Jack turned away, shoulders slumped grumpily, to watch the scenery sliding by. Aware of Michael’s continuing scrutiny, Stevie had a little smile on his face as he gazed into the distance, carefully avoiding eye contact so as not to seem too proud.

  ‘How big is this boat, Stevie?’ Michael’s curiosity came to the fore; Stevie turned his smile on him:

  ‘Seventy foot’ he said, the pride resonating in his voice despite his attempt to sound casual: ‘All narrerboats are the sem soize, give or tek a bit. Gran’ Union’s are a foot ’n a ’alf bigger‘n ourn – they can carry a toon or so more’n oos. Boot moy Dad sez they’re big oogly boogers.’ The two boys shared a grin at his repeating of such colourful language.

  ‘How much do you carry at once, then?’

  ‘We got ’bout twenny-eight toon on this’n, ’n twenny-three or –four on the motor.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Your load?’

  ‘Oh – Inkits. Alloo… Allyoomin…’

  ‘Aluminium?’

  ‘Ah – that’s it. Allyoominum inkits.’ Michael paused, trying to make sense of this – then the light dawned:

  ‘Aluminium Ingots?’

  ‘S’what Oi said!’

  ‘Where’re you taking them?’

  ‘Birnigum’

  ‘Birmingham?’

  ‘Yeah - Birnigum! Yew deaf or soomat?’ Afraid he’d angered his new friend, Michael hurried to smooth things over:

  ‘No – sorry – it’s just that your accent’s a bit…’ Stevie suddenly grinned at him:

  ‘Yew can talk! Yew sound all la-di-da – moost coom from spendin’ all yer toime in school, Oi s’pose.’ And then they were laughing together, the townie boy and the boater’s kid sharing the understanding that the joy of childhood is the same, whatever your circumstances. Stevie went back to his explanation of their trip:

  ‘We ’ad ter go teh Loime’us ter load, ’cause there weren’t no loighters ter bring the stoof ter Brentford for oos. That’s all the way ’round the Paddin’ton cut, see? It’s a bit scary there, ’cause they load oos straight out o’ the ship, wi’ big cranes – if’n they gits it wrong, they could sink oos, no trouble! Now, we’re ’eadin’ back oop the Joonction, ’n Oi ’spect it’ll be middle road inter Birnigum ’n oop the Ol’ Main Loine ter James’s fact’ry on the So’o loop.’

  Most of this ‘explanation’ meant nothing at all to Michael; Stevie grinned at the blank look on his face:

  ‘Yew doon’t know what Oi’m on about, do yeh?’ Michael shook his head:

  ‘I don’t know the places you’re talking about, I’m afraid!’

  ‘Loime’us dock’s on the London River, roight? Where the big ships coom in. They usually send the stoof oop ter Brentford – that’s at the end o’ the Gran’ Joonction cut, where we meets ’em – on loighters, on the river. Only this toime, they ’adn’t got noo spare loighters, roight?’

  ‘So you had to go to the dock?’

  ‘Yeah! Noow, we’re goin’ back ter Birnigum – this ’ere’s the Gran’ Joonction Canal, roight? Goes all the way from Brentford teh Braunston – then, we’ll go on the Warwick cuts inter Birnigum, oop ’Atton locks – that’s what they call the middle road, see? ’N Oi ’spect we’re goin’ ter James’s wi’ this lot – that’s the usual place we tek Allyoo…’

  ‘Aluminium.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s on what we call the So’o loop, off’n the Ol’ Main Loine o’ the BCN.’

  ‘BCN?’

  ‘Er – Birnigum Canal… Navigash’ns.’

  ‘I see…’ Michael was still not entirely clear about what Stevie had been saying, but he didn’t want to appear too stupid. Hearing the doubt in his voice, the boy at the tiller gave him a big grin:

  ‘Yeh’ll see, when we gits ther’!’

  A friendly silence fell between
them as they passed an old derelict wharf at the canalside, only the big whitewashed house, with its sway-backed roof, showing signs of occupation. Michael found himself bursting with questions about life and work on the boats – the more he learnt, the more he realised there was that he didn’t know, and the more he wanted to ask. But for now:

  ‘How difficult is it to steer a boat?’

  ‘S’easy! Yeh can see ’ow mooch Oi’ve bin doin’ ’ere. ’Course, the butty ’as ter foller the motor, ’cause o’ the tow – boot yer still ’as ter keep it roight. Let it git out o’ the channel, ’n roon on the mud, ’n yer can snap the loine, so yew ’as ter stay in the middle o’ the cut, see?’

  He gave Michael a speculative look: ‘Yew want ter ’ave a go?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ Stevie caught the look of thunder on his little brother’s face as Jack looked around at him:

  ‘Oi’m teachin’ Moichael, Jackie! Yeh can ’ave go in a bit, h’okay?’ The youngster turned away again, not entirely mollified but knowing that it was no use arguing with his brother. Stevie turned back to Michael:

  “Old on whoile Oi tek it ’round this turn – then yew troy, okay?’

  ‘What do I have to do?’ Michael was still unsure of himself.

  ‘Yew joost move the tiller oone way or t’other, ’n the boat turns – loike this:’ He pushed the tiller away, to the right: ‘Put the ’ellum oover that way, ’n the boat cooms ’round this way, see?’ He gestured ahead with his free hand, and Michael turned to watch the front of the boat swing gently to the left. Stevie pulled the tiller to the left, and the Angelus came back straight, and began to turn right instead; he brought the butty back into line and centred the tiller. The boats swept around the bend in the canal, passing under a blue-brick bridge at its apex; a long straight section now loomed before them as Stevie turned to his apprentice: ‘See? S’easy, en’t it? Coom on, yew stand ’ere, wher’ Oi am, ’n tek ’old o’ the ’ellum.’ He stepped out into the well, making room for Michael to take his place; but the other boy hesitated, scared of the responsibility: