A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  The only question was, where on earth had he gone? The authorities, police, ARP and all, had their minds collectively on other matters, even if it was still just a ‘phoney war’; too preoccupied to take the disappearance of a schoolkid very seriously, especially as it seemed he’d taken himself off, would probably bring himself back home just as surreptitiously, in his own good time. Granny Thompson lived in the town, just a few streets away, but she’d seen neither hide nor hair of the boy, hadn’t known of his disappearance until roused by her daughter-in-law’s frantic knocking on her door the previous morning. The police had gone to see Nettie’s parents, Granny and Grandpa Morris, over in Buckingham, but they’d not heard from Michael either.

  Just as long as he was okay – that was all that mattered! Janet was not a religious woman, but lately she’d taken to offering a quiet prayer each night for the protection of her own two sons – Edward, learning to fly fighter aeroplanes with the RAF, and Martin, training as ground-crew because they wouldn’t let him fly, not with his eyesight. Last night, she’d added little Michael’s name as a third on her list: Please, God, just let him be safe! In the back of her mind, and, she was sure, in the back of Nettie’s, if not Reg Thompson’s, was the fear that he might have decided that life wasn’t worth living… But they hadn’t found his body, either, so that had to be hopeful, didn’t it?

  ‘I’m off to school, Mum!’ Janet turned to wave goodbye to her daughter:

  ‘Okay, Susan love. Don’t work too hard!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t!’ The girl chuckled as ever at their daily joke, swept out of the door in her uniform, the battered old satchel over her shoulder. Janet turned back to her washing-up, her mind still on her neighbours: Poor Nettie – and poor little Ginny! The little girl had come to her yesterday, while her parents were out looking for Michael, distraught at the absence of the big brother she loved more than anyone. Janet shook her head, told herself with feigned certainty he’ll turn up in a day or two!

  * * *

  Ten miles away, the subject of her thoughts was enjoying a robust snow-ball fight with a bunch of boatee kids. Stevie and Jack had dragged him out, quite early – seven or eight pairs of boats had opted to stay in Stoke Bruerne the previous night, and now weren’t going anywhere until the thaw came, at least enough for the ice-breaker to get through and free them all. Now, about a dozen youngsters, ranging from four to about twelve, were hurtling around, their eager voices shrill in the frosty air, on the old disused mill wharf, snow-balls flying indiscriminately in all directions.

  A brief pause in the random, good-natured hostilities, as the snarl of aero-engines made itself heard. Heads turned, eyes raised to the ice-blue skies, as a vic of three fighters passed overhead:

  ‘Spitfoires!’ The cry from several small throats, but Michael shook his head:

  ‘No – those are Hurricanes.’

  ‘’Ow d’yeh know?’ Stevie was the inquisitor.

  ‘Their wings are straight, with round ends, look! Spitfires have curved wings, and the ends are pointed.’

  ‘Oh – yew sure?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  The planes flew on, and a snowball hit Stevie on the shoulder, bringing him back to the battle at hand.

  Nothing more had been said about Michael’s future, and he hadn’t wanted to raise the subject, still unsure of just what he wanted. He’d understood Vi’s explanations, and accepted, albeit with a feeling of sadness, that he couldn’t stay with the Hanneys – the choice between going back home and going to work with this Mr Baker was a difficult one: He found himself now beginning to miss his mother, and little Ginny – even Andy – so to have to choose between seeing them again, and launching out into the unknown, even with Gracie’s company, was a hard choice for a boy of ten. As the snow-ball fight went on, his mind kept returning to the subject despite his attempts to ignore it – one moment he’d decide to give up and go home; the next, to go on to Braunston and at least meet this Mr Baker, see what he was like…

  * * *

  Ben Vickers replaced the telephone’s handset, a thoughtful look on his face. He got to his feet, left the office, and made his way around FMC’s dock to where Alby Baker’s pair were tied, near the iron bridge. He knocked on the butty’s cabinside – the pair were breasted up, the motor as always on the outside, where the water could more easily accommodate its deeper draught. The hatch slid back, and Baker’s head poked out into the bright morning air:

  ‘Mornin, Ben! Coom on in the warm – yeh got toime fer a coopa?’

  ‘You know better than to ask, Alby!’ Vickers stepped down into the cabin as Albert pushed the doors open for him, pulled them closed again behind him. He seated himself where his old friend indicated on the sidebed, while his host reached into the top cupboard above the table and extracted a striking brown and white Measham teapot which had been Rita’s pride and joy. Seeing this, Ben commented:

  ‘I’m honoured, Alby!’ The boatman shrugged his shoulders:

  ‘She wouldn’a wanted it joost sittin’ in the coopboard gatherin’ doost.’

  Ben sat silent while his friend spooned tea into the pot, added water from the kettle which had already been singing quietly to itself on the range. That was the inviolable convention which had to be observed – business could be raised only when the ceremony of brewing and pouring the tea was concluded. Alby would give him the opening, when he was ready!

  At last, each sat with a mug of good strong tea in front of him on the lowered table-cupboard:

  ‘So, Ben – coom ter pester me about this job on the dock, then, ’ave yer?’ Vickers laughed, shook his head:

  ‘No, Alby! I think we might manage to keep you on the boats after all!’

  ‘Oh? ’Ow’s that, then?’ The boater’s voice was as noncommittal as his expression – but Ben had seen the light in his eyes:

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Bert Jones, lock-keeper at Stoke Top…’ he went on to tell Baker about the runaway that Vi and Bill Hanney had picked up, and of Vi’s suggestion that he could go to work with him. The man’s reaction was exactly what Bill Hanney had expected:

  ‘Coom on, Ben! What bloody use is a little kid off the bank goin’ ter be ter me? ’E’ll know nothin’ o’ boatin’, ’n Oi can’t teach ’im on me own ’n work a pair at the same toime! ’N Oi ’spect ’e’ll be ’ankerin’ teh go ’ome to ’is folks ’fore we git anywher’, any’ow!’

  ‘Hold on, listen, Alby! Vi also says you can take their Grace along – she’ll help you, and help to teach this kid at the same time. Between you, you could manage okay. Gracie herself is all for it – Vi reckons she’s taken a fancy to young Joey Caplin, and won’t mind her folks not being about when they meet up around the cut.’ Alby laughed:

  ‘Aye, Oi reckon! Remoinds me o’ the way moy Rita alwes troid teh git away from the soight o’ her Ma when we was courtin’! Old Ma Wain didn’t think mooch ter me, at fust – boot she coom ’round in the end.’

  ‘Grace is almost sixteen now – she’s a good boater, and even if she goes her own way in a year or two, by then you can have the boy trained up. The two of you could run the pair, then – after all, you and Rita managed okay with just two, didn’t you? And this lad’s young and fit, from what Vi says, and only too keen to learn.’

  ‘’Ow old is ’e?’

  ‘Ten, coming on eleven. His name’s Michael – he’s on the skinny side, but tall for his age, apparently.’

  “Wher’s ’e coom from?’

  ‘They don’t know, exactly. They found him by Galleon Bridge. And I don’t think you need worry about him wanting to go home – Vi reckons he’d tried to drown himself by jumping in the cut. He won’t talk about his home, but it must have been pretty awful for him to do that.’

  ‘Hmm, yeah, mebbe so.’ Alby sat back, sipping his tea thoughtfully for a minute or so; then he nodded: ‘H’okay, Ben, Oi’ll give ’im a go, if young Gracie’s along ter ’elp. Loike yeh say, she’s a good girl.’ He drained his mug, set it down: ‘Wha
t about me boats?’

  ‘I was going to put the Sycamore on the dock later today. The Antrim is fine, we only docked her what, last year?’

  ‘Yeah. Boot the motor needs doin’, Ben – it needs a coat o’ paint, and the bottoms are weepin’ joost back o’ the mast, need fixin’ ’fore they git any worse. ’Ave yeh got a change boat Oi could ’ave?’

  ‘I could get you one…’ The conversation lapsed into a thoughtful silence, only to be broken by Alby, going off on another tack:

  ‘When’s ’Anneys loikely ter git ’ere? Oi tek it they’re froze in at Stoke Bruin, roight now?’

  ‘That’s right, Alby. But the weather men say the thaw’s on its way, tonight or tomorrow – if they get the Gayton ice-boat working and break them free, they could be here, probably the day after.’

  ‘Hmm… Wher’ are they ’eadin’ for?’

  ‘They’ve got Aluminium on, fifty-two ton, for James’s foundry on the Soho.’

  ‘Hmm. ’Ow about if this little lad stays wi’ them fer a bit longer? If they tek ’im oop teh Birnigum, ’n drop ’im ’ere on their nex’ trip, boy then yeh could ’ave moy motor about ready, couldn’ yer? ’N ’e’ll learn more, ’n quicker, wi’ them – they got a good crew, with all them kiddies o’ their own, ’aven’t they?’ Vickers just smiled at the boatman, who went on: ‘’N Oi’ll mek meself useful round ’ere, in the meanwhoile – get soome of them old Bolinder’s o’ your’n roonnin’ properly! ’Ow’s that?’

  ‘If you hadn’t suggested it, I was going to! You can start by setting up your own engine – then the old Envoy is by the dock, she really needs a new motor but I haven’t got one spare, with the war and everything. You could see what you can do with her, for me?’

  ‘Roight – it’s a deal then, Mr Vickers?’ He put out his hand; Ben took it, shook it warmly:

  ‘A deal, Mr Baker!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘No stars tonoight, Mr ’Anney!’

  Bill had been standing in the hatches of the Acorn, waiting and puffing on one of his notorious roll-ups while Vi got herself into her best skirt and blouse, ready for another foray over the road to the Boat, to sample whatever impromptu entertainment the evening might provide. Now, he looked around at the sound of a voice:

  ‘Yer roight ther’, lad!’ Joe Caplin stood on the bank, by the butty’s stern: ‘Bert said ther’d be a thaw tonoight – ’e could even be roight, mebbe!’

  ‘Wind’s bin gone ’round since mornin’, ’asn’ it?’

  ‘Ar – yeh roight, boy!’

  ‘Shall yeh be away in the mornin’, then?’

  ‘Reckon so. ’E says Gayton Yard’ll troy ’n ’ave the oice-boat out fust thing, s’long as its softened oop enough, brek it through ter Bugby; we’ll get away, through the toonnel, see ’ow far we can git. Should make the New Inn, at Bugby top; mebbe even Braunston. Yew ’eaded off, too?’

  ‘S’oop ter moy Dad, Mr ’Anney – boot Oi’d say so. We’re goin’ ter Brentford, wi’ what they’re callin’ machine parts – bits fer tanks, Oi reckon they are, bound fer France or soomwher’.’

  ‘Shan’t be seein’ yeh fer a whoile, then?’

  ‘Reckon not, Mr ’Anney.’ The youth hesitated: ‘S’whoy Oi’m ’ere, really – is your Gracie coomin’ oover the Boat wi’ yeh tonoight?’ Bill laughed:

  ‘Moy Missus was roight, then, was she? You two’re sweet on each oother?’ Joe’s blush was mercifully lost in the darkness:

  ‘We loike each oother foine, fer sure, Mr ’Anney – But Gracie’s not sixteen yet, it’s too soon ter be thinkin’ loike that!’

  ‘Oi know, lad – Oi’m only teasin’ yeh! Teh answer yer question – no, she’s stayin’ wi’ the boats tonoight, ter keep an oiye on the young ’uns. Our Billy’s coomin fer a beer with ’is old Dad, instead!’ He stood aside, feeling Vi’s tap on his leg, to let her emerge from the cabin beside him.

  ‘Yeh could stay ’ere, talk to ’er, if yeh wanted, Joey?’ Vi had clearly overheard the conversation. Bill gave her a doubtful look, but she just smiled serenely at him: ‘Joey’s a good boy, Bill, ’e’ll not do anythin’ ’e shouldn’t.’

  ‘Of Course Oi won’t, Mrs ’Anney! We’ll sit on the starn-end ’ere, wher’ yeh can keep an oiye on oos!’ Vi laughed:

  ‘Yew do that, Joey, keep moy man ’appy! Coom on, Bill, that ale woon’t keep all noight!’ She knocked on the top of the butty cabin: ‘Yew too, Billy, shift yerself! Gracie – soomeone ter see yer, girl!’

  * * *

  Bert Jones’ message for the Hanneys, that afternoon, hadn’t just concerned the weather:

  ‘Mr Vickuss said te tell ye that Owbert Baker’ll gi’ yore noo boy a try, Bill – as long as ’e’s got yore Gracie te ’elp ’im. ’E wants ye te stop and see ’im, when ye gets te Brarnston, okay?’

  ‘Roight-oh, Bert. If what yeh say ’bout the weather’s roight, we’ll be away termorrer, with any loock.’

  ‘Okay, mate! Cloud’s buildin’ up a’ready, ennit?’

  So the next morning saw the family up and about as usual, making ready to get under way. By soon after seven, the big Bolinder was making its habitual off-beat throb echo off of the surrounding buildings; the ice, while still present, was visibly thinning, withdrawing from its margins, leaving a clear edge around the boats and along the bankside. During the night, Bill had wakened to the sound of a gentle rain on the cabintop, and smiled to himself before turning over and going back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that they would be able to move come morning.

  Through the Blisworth tunnel, of course, the water was clear – in the cuttings at each end, they broke a thin skim of ice, but once into Blisworth village, past the old mill by the bridge, they found the surface already broken, either by other pairs moving in front of them, or by the ice-breaker from the canal company’s maintenance yard by Gayton Junction. From then, their journey was much easier, despite still having to plough their way through the softening, broken ice; once past the junction, where the arm to Northampton and the River Nene turns off to the right, they began to meet other pairs travelling in the opposite direction. Each steerer would call across, confirming that the way ahead was passable; Bill would respond in kind, telling them that the road to Stoke was clear.

  There was still enough broken ice to make the working of Buckby Locks slow and difficult, causing Bill to mutter under his breath at the delay; but the summit was clear, and once through Braunston Tunnel, the run down the six locks was made in quite good time.

  The old Bolinder’s beat echoed under the bridge below Braunston bottom lock as Bill wound it up to power the laden pair out into the length. Last to scramble back aboard, the three boys perched themselves around the gunwale of the butty’s stern well, under Vi’s watchful eye as she leant in the hatches. Dinner was simmering on the range, below – Billy and Grace stood one each side on the motor’s gunwales as their father took the still-breasted pair past the old boat-building sheds, and under the towering gaze of the engine-house chimney.

  ‘Tonk….Tonk Tonk….Tonk….Tonk….Tonk Tonk’ The engine settled to its irregular tickover as Bill wound back the throttle, letting the boats travel slowly along, past the reedy, overgrown reservoir and under Butcher’s Bridge. And so to the iron bridge over what had once been part of the Oxford Canal, now a truncated arm which was home to Fellows, Morton & Clayton’s dock and offices. Along the length they passed tied-up boats – some obviously out of service, waiting to be docked, or just abandoned for want of crews; others occupied, perhaps awaiting a quick, minor repair, or perhaps stopped for family reasons – birth or sickness, marriage, even a funeral.

  Michael gazed around, taking it all in even through the gathering gloom – the dank greyness of the day was beginning to descend into a deeper darkness which was slowly killing all the colour in the scene that met his eyes. Just past the iron bridge, Bill knocked out the clutch, turned the boats in toward a vacant space on the towpath:

  ‘We’ll toy ther’, Ma!’ he called across.r />
  Two small figures climbed nimbly onto the butty’s cabin roof, and ran forward along the top planks, jumped down onto the foredeck. As the fore-end came close to the bank, the skinny one with the mop of golden hair leapt off, taking the mooring line with him; his companion, shorter, stockier, and black haired, followed suit, showed him how to tie the line, through the ring and back onto the butty’s fore-end stud. Bill smiled to himself: Vi was roight, ’e’ll mek a boater yet!

  All that day, he’d been watching young Michael, seeing how he threw himself into any task that was set him – winding paddles, pushing gates, even steering the butty on easier parts of the long pound from Blisworth to Long Buckby. ’E won’t give oop, neither! A number of times, the boy had rebuffed Stevie’s attempts to help him, insisting on doing things for himself: On the heavy, cantankerous paddle-gear of Buckby Locks, he’d heaved and strained, refusing to give in, making Vi exchange amused smiles with her husband even if Bill’s impatience to get ahead would have preferred him to let Stevie lend that helping hand:

  ‘Ere, Oi’ll give yer a ’and’ Stevie’s voice had carried down to them over the sound of the engine.

  ‘No! I can do it!’ And he had, even if he’d almost collapsed into the boat when they finally cleared the top lock of the seven. Working downhill, at Braunston, he’d found the going much easier, found himself enjoying the labour, beginning to find a satisfying rhythm in the swing of the gates, the pulling of the paddles, the movement of the boats. Now, as, under Stevie’s expert direction, he tied the fore-end to the mooring ring outside the old Stop House, he was feeling deliciously tired, and happy with his lot in a way he hadn’t known for so long…