A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Oh, Coom on, Moikey! Yeh’ll ’ave teh ’ave a go soomtoime, if’n yer goin’ ter stay on the boats!’ Michael gave him a nervous smile, but did as he was bid, climbing down carefully from the cabintop to stand in the hatches. He took the end of the long wooden tiller, polished from years of use, in his right hand; Stevie stood behind him, his own hand still resting on the shaft, ready to guide his pupil.

  Down in the butty cabin, Vi and her daughter had been holding a prolonged conversation over the dinner preparations, one peeling the potatoes while the other scraped and cut up the carrots. Their voices were hushed, so that the subject of their talk didn’t overhear, although the sound of the children’s chatter from outside suggested that they had their attention elsewhere. When the shuffling of feet on the step in the cabin doors interrupted them, Vi looked up with a grin:

  ‘Seems loike ah Stevie’s tekin’ ’is new job serious-loike!’ She gestured with the knife, and Grace turned to see Michael’s feet, clad in Stevie’s spare boots, step nervously into place. She smiled, her dark eyes alight:

  ‘Yew think it’ll work oot alroight, Ma? What we bin talkin’ about?’

  ‘We’ll see, love. Oi’ll talk teh yer Dad, later – Oi reckon ’e’ll go along wi’ it.’ The girl turned back to her task, the smile still on her face.

  Billy Hanney looked over his shoulder as his boater’s sixth sense told him that the tow wasn’t behaving the way it should, the butty’s weight at the end of its line pulling the motor-boat’s stern fractionally to one side, shifting the tiller in his hand:

  ‘Eh, Dad!’ He gestured back with a toss of his head. His father, stood on the gunwale to one side of the cabin, his knees leaning against it to keep him balanced, looked up from rolling his cigarette, and glanced in the direction indicated. Even at that distance, the trepidation on Michael’s face was clear to see; he turned back to his son with a grin:

  ‘Doon’t look too ’appy, doos ’e?’ Billy laughed:

  ‘Stevie’ll keep an oiye on ’im, ’e woon’t let ’im cock it oop too bad!’ They exchanged grins which had an element of the conspiratorial about them.

  ‘No! Not so mooch!’ Stevie’s guiding hand fought Michael’s over-enthusiastic push on the tiller: ‘Gently doos it, Moikey. Yew only want ter move it a little way, see? Joost enooff ter keep it straight. Moy Dad sez the more yeh steer a boat, the more yeh ’as ter steer it.’

  ‘What?’ Michael was trying to concentrate on the task at hand, and this obscure statement had him perplexed.

  ‘If yeh steer it too mooch oone way, yeh ’as ter steer back the oother, ’n so on, roight? Yeh’ll end oop goin’ from soide ter soide ’til yeh ’it’s the bank or soomat, see?’

  ‘Oh – right!’

  ‘So – joost move the ’ellum a bit at a toime, ’n watch the fore-end, wher’ it’s goin, keep it loined oop joost teh the roight o’ the motor’s starn-end. That way, yeh’re out o’ the blade-wash, roight?’

  Michael focussed all is attention on doing as he’d been instructed. Moving the heavy tiller to keep the boat from wandering off-course, he could feel the pressure of Stevie’s hand guiding what he did, and slowly found himself getting the feel of the boat as it responded to their joint control. And as he relaxed, he realised that he was beginning to enjoy himself, his fears subsiding behind the pride at having such a huge vessel under his inexperienced command. But there was a problem:

  ‘Stevie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There’s a bridge coming up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Michael risked a quick glance at his instructor, saw the devilish grin on his face:

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Best oidea is ter aim fer the ’ole in the middle.’

  Vi and Gracie exchanged cheerful looks as the boys’ laughter echoed down into the cabin, even if they could both hear the nervous edge to Michael’s.

  Chapter Eleven

  A journey which they would usually have completed in the course of a morning had taken them most of the day. They’d reached the bottom of Stoke Bruerne locks about lunchtime – Despite his impatience, Bill had insisted on taking the six-mile quite slowly, aware that the butty’s wooden hull could be damaged by the sharp-edged icefloes, even if the Acorn, a newer boat with an iron-sided hull, would be quite safe in such conditions.

  Forewarned by the family on a southbound pair they’d passed near Bozenham Mill, all hands had turned to for the flight, fortified by mugs of steaming hot soup resurrected by Grace from the remnants of the previous night’s stew and passed around as they rose in the bottom lock. With too much broken ice floating on the water, it was impossible to get the gates fully back into their recesses in the lock walls, preventing the boats from being breasted up as would have been the usual practice – instead, at each lock, Bill and Vi would run the motor and butty in separately, manoeuvring them alongside each other before Grace and the boys closed the gates and raised the paddles to fill the lock. And even that could only be done after some time spent using the long shafts to clear the ice from behind the gates. They crossed several more pairs headed in the opposite direction, and Vi got a report of Rita Baker’s funeral from a southbound FMC family who had been there, their boat undergoing repairs to its engine in the Braunston yard.

  Despite being a year the younger, Stevie had now taken Michael firmly under his wing; with Jack tagging along, the younger boys had worked one side of the cut as a team, Michael eager to learn all that Stevie and his brother could teach him. Vi watched them, her proprietorial pride in her own offspring matched by a growing admiration at the way in which her new charge was prepared to throw himself into whatever task he was given. It was mid-afternoon by the time they had cleared the flight, a job which would normally have taken little more than half an hour; Bill and his wife had conferred briefly beside top lock, and decided that it would be folly to go on further that day, preferring the civilisation of Stoke Bruerne to the desolation of the sixteen-mile pound if they were indeed going to be ice-bound for a while.

  * * *

  ‘Two points o’ moild, ’n a stout fer me Mum, please, Zoe!’ Joey Caplin stood at the diminutive bar of the Boat Inn, beside the canal by Stoke Bruerne top lock. Oldest of the Caplin children, Joe was just seventeen – too young, in the eyes of the law, to be drinking ale, let alone buying it. But that was a law which, on the waterways as in many rural communities, was more often ignored than observed. His parents sat side-by-side in the bay window, his father idly picking at his banjo, listening and finely tuning the strings. Zoe Woodward, the landlady, plonked the two pint glasses down, turned to reach for a bottle of stout from a shelf behind her, as Joe fumbled in his pocket for a handful of change.

  ‘How old are you, young man?’ Joe looked around at the question; his eyes lit on a man sat in the corner of the bar, whose attire placed him as a member of the farming community who regularly shared the Boat with the people of the waterway. The man rose to his feet – taller than Joe, and broadly-built, dark hair greying at the temples, he looked down at the teenager with an expression of some disdain as the boy, mindful of the law, replied:

  ‘Eighteen!’

  ‘Oh? Then what are you doing here?’ The man’s voice was educated, but still carried the local Northamptonshire accent. Unsure of his intentions Joe answered:

  ‘What d’yeh mean? We’re workin’, on our way ter Brentf’d.’

  ‘Why aren’t you off fighting for your Country, like all the other young fellows?’ The man’s manner was becoming intimidating, and Joe took a step back, unsure how to reply. His father stood up, and answered the man’s question:

  ‘We’re boaters, mate, doin’ our job, h’okay?’ The man turned to him, looked him up and down:

  ‘Maybe – but this young fellow should be serving his Country, in the forces, at a time like this!’

  ‘Oh no ‘e shouldn’! Soom o’ the boatee boys ’ave joined oop, boot that’s their choice – we’re what they call a deserve
d h’occipation, so ‘e doon’ ’ave ter go if ’e doon’ want teh, roight?’

  ‘It’s not right! My son’s had to go, risking his life in the army, while you get to stay here and take it easy – it’s not right!’ he repeated.

  ‘We’re doin’ ar bit, mate! Roight now, we got a load o’ shell cases, goin’ ter be filled oop ’n sent off ter France fer your bloody army – if we didn’ carry ’em, ’ow’d yon fellers be able to foight, eh?’ The landlady chipped in, trying to calm things down:

  ‘Leave the kid alone, Tony – like Henry says, they’re doing their bit for the war! Let ’em have their drinks in peace, after a long hard day, all right?’ the man glowered at her for a moment, drained his glass, slammed it down on the bar and stormed out. She turned to Joe:

  ‘Don’t take too much notice of Tony, lad, he’s just upset ’cause his boy’s been called up. Worried about ’im, you understand?’ Joe gave her a smile:

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘Tell ’im we ’ope ’is kid’s all right, when yeh see ’im again, eh, Zoe?’ Henry added; the landlady nodded;

  ‘I will, Henry. You ’ave those drinks on me, right, for the upset?’ Always glad of a free beer, father and son both grinned at her:

  ‘Thanks, Zo! Yeh’re a star!’

  ‘Not now, Bill! We’re not goin’ noowher’ fer a day or two, ’n ther’ll be toime enooff ter talk about ’im termorrer.’

  For the umpteenth time that evening, Bill Hanney had tried to raise the subject of their unexpected guest, only to have Vi shush him. He was the boss, the captain of the boats, and would brook no interference with his decisions on that front – but he gladly allowed Vi to take charge when it came to the children. He sensed that she had come to some decision regarding Michael, and knew that she would discuss it with him when she was ready, even take note of any objections he might have; but for now, all he could do was shake his head and return to his pint of mild.

  They too were now sat in the bar of the Boat Inn. It was later in the evening, and the atmosphere had become thick and smoky in its tight confines; a lull had fallen in the music, melodeons and Henry Caplin’s banjo laid aside for the moment. Gracie was sitting in one corner in her best dress, her hands clasped primly in her lap although she was deep in animated conversation with Joe; Billy had volunteered to stay with the boats, keep an eye on the young ones, while his elders had gone to the pub, understanding his sister’s eagerness to be in the company of her beau even if both of them thought their parents were unaware of it. He’d seen his two little brothers settled in the butty cabin, top ’n tail on the sidebed as was their usual sleeping arrangement, and then taken Michael over into the motor in accordance with his mother’s instructions – the boy was to sleep where she could keep an eye on him, even if it meant Billy himself having to manage on the butty’s floor again. Not that he minded – it seemed like the kid could do with a break, if what he’d gathered of his life was true – but he quietly hoped it wouldn’t be for too long!

  He felt the boat move gently as someone stepped onto the butty – the pair was once more tied side-by-side in conventional fashion – then heard the scrape of boots on the counter. The cabin doors opened, the hatch slid back, and his mother stepped down inside, her eyebrows raised in question:

  ‘’E’s foine, Ma. ’N the other two’re asleep nex’ door.’ His voice was soft, not to wake the sleeping child.

  ‘Roight – thank yer, Billy. Gracie’s ’ome – give ’er a minute ’n yeh can git ter bed ’n all.’ He nodded, and climbed out onto the counter; his father took his place in the cabin, passing Vi to sit on the edge of the cross-bed where she had already lowered it before brewing them a last cup of tea. She poured, and sat on the stool beside the open table-cupboard, leaning on her elbows to take a sip from her cup, her eyes raised to her husband. She smiled at the look on his face:

  ‘Yew en’t gonna sleep oonless we talk about ’im, are yeh?’ She knew he was troubled by the boy’s presence, concerned at what to do with him. She held his gaze for a minute; then: ‘All roight, Bill. Oi’ll tell yeh what Oi think – me ’n Gracie ’ad a long chat about it, coomin’ oop the six-moile terday.’

  ‘Go on, Ma?’

  ‘Well – we can’t keep ’im, can we? We don’t need any ’elp, wi’ four of our own, ’n we en’t got the room fer ’im, really, ’ave we? ’N they say as ’ow food’s gooin’ ter git rationed any toime now, what with the war ’n all, so Oi don’t need an extra mouth ter feed. We won’t git rations fer ’im, ’cause ’e en’t one of our’n.’

  ‘So we should send ’im ’ome, is that what yeh’re sayin’?’ Vi glanced briefly at the shape huddled under the blanket on the sidebed:

  ‘No, Bill. ’E woon’t thank oos fer that, not if ’e troied teh drown ’imself teh git away from ther’.’ She leant forward conspiratorially: ‘Ow about we give ’im ter Alby?’

  ‘Alby Baker?’

  ‘Yeah! ’E’s got no-one, wi’ Rita gone, ’n Alex away in the Navy, ’as ’e?’ Bill looked puzzled:

  ‘What good’s a kid off the bank goin’ ter be ter Alby? ’E don’t know anythin’ about boatin’, ’n Alby can’t teach ’im if ther’s joost the two o’ them troyin’ teh work the boats!’

  ‘No – boot we could lend ’im our Gracie, as well. Wi’ the three of ’em, they could manage the pair, ’n Moichael could learn as they go along, see?’ Bill sat back, considering this idea. He had to concede that it did make a kind of sense – with two experienced boaters, the boy would have every chance to learn and become a valuable member of the crew; and it would get Alby Baker back into the work he loved, with some prospect of continuing as they both knew he would want to. But there was one thing he didn’t like…

  ‘Oi know what yeh’re gonna say, Bill. Boot, she’s goin ter go, one day, yeh know that. She’s near growed oop – ’n she’s got an oiye fer that Joey Caplin, too.’

  ‘She ’as?’

  ‘’Course! Din’t yer see ’em, tonoight? Thick as thieves, in that corner! She’ll be weddin’ that boy, one foine day, you see if Oi’m not roight!’

  This news set Bill back on his heels. He’d known his only daughter was growing up, becoming a fine woman as she did so, but the idea of her married… Like any father, he found the thought of his precious girl being old enough to have children of her own both scary and rather painful. But Vi was right. He heaved a sigh:

  ‘Yeah – mebbe yeh’re roight, Vi. Boot what’s Alby goin’ter think?’

  ‘We’ll ’ave ter ask ’im. Oi ’spect Bert’ll ’ave a tellyphone in ’is cottage – if not, Oi’m sure Zoe’s got oone in the poob. We’ll get oone of ’em teh ring Mr Vickers, in the mornin’, ask ’im ter talk ter Alby, see what ’e says.’

  ‘Yeah…’ He glanced down at the sleeping child: ‘Can ’e ’andle the work, though, Vi? Yew saw ’im las’ noight, when yeh’d got ’is clothes off of ’im – ’e’s a skinny little thing!’

  ‘Aye – boot ’e’s woiry with it, Bill. Yew saw ’im, terday, with our two, gettin’ stook in, pushin’ the gates, ’n woindin’ the paddles once Stevie’d showed ’im ’ow.’

  ‘Mebbe… Boot what about ’im? Will ’e loike this idea o’ your’n?’ Vi chuckled:

  ‘Whoy doon’t yeh ask ’im?’

  ‘What? Wek ’im oop, at this toime o’ noight?’ Now, she gave a full-throated laugh:

  ‘E’s bin listenin’ to oos all the toime! Bin awake since we coom in – ’aven’t yeh, boy?’

  The mound on the sidebed rolled over; Michael pushed the blanket down from his face, gave her a rueful smile and nodded sleepily:

  ‘I woke up when the boat moved – and then I heard you talking about me. I’m sorry…’

  ‘Doon’t yew be, choild! Yew’ve ’eard what we said, it’ll save oos ’avin’ ter explain it teh yeh tehmorrer.’ The boy nodded again.

  ‘So – what d’yeh think, Moichael?’ Bill asked.

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Vi smiled gently at him:

  ‘
Oi know, Moikey – yeh wanted ter stay with oos, didn’t yeh? Boot, yeh heard what Oi said ter moy man – it’s joost not practical. Goin’ with Mr Baker, yeh’ll be able teh ’elp ’im no end, ’n ah Gracie’ll be there teh keep an oiye on yeh, ’elp yeh along.’

  Michael went to speak, but she shushed him: ‘Yew get soome sleep now, choild, we’ll talk about it in the mornin’, h’okay?’

  Quite why he wanted to cry, Michael couldn’t understand, but the tears rose to his eyes nonetheless. Vi saw them, and hitched her stool closer, drew the boy into her arms as he reached for her, holding his slim bare shoulders as they began to shake:

  ‘Yew poor kiddie! It’ll all work out, yew’ll see!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Eight o’clock in the morning. Janet Eastwood looked up from the sink as the news bulletin came on the wireless in the back room: He’ll be clockin’ on now – clocked on if he doesn’t want to lose a quarter of an hour’s money! She’d got Eric away in good time for work, as always – even if he’d been in half a mind to take the day off, help their neighbours look for the boy. She hadn’t seen Reg go off – presumably, he was staying home…

  They were calling it the Phoney War, even the newsreaders. Four months in, and not a lot seemed to be happening – not that that was necessarily a bad thing! Oh, there was news of the Expeditionary Force in France and Belgium, of course, and even the odd air-raid, back and forth across the North Sea. At home, things were going on much as usual, in many ways; petrol had been rationed, but that didn’t matter too much to the Eastwoods – they couldn’t afford a motor-car. There was talk now of food being put on ration any time – she heaved a sigh: That would make life more difficult; but they’d get by, they always did!

  She’d persuaded Eric that it wasn’t worth losing a day’s pay – it seemed pretty certain, if what she’d heard was true, that little Michael had run off of his own accord. And who could blame the kiddie? All the neighbours knew what a rough time he had from his father – she had, herself, heard their rowing through the too-thin walls between the terraced houses, seen the occasional bruises on the lad’s arms and face… No, who could blame him for wanting to get away from such abuse?