A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  ‘Only Andy – he’s my younger brother. He’s what they call a Mongol, he’s… his brain doesn’t work right, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, Oi know. Oi’m sorry, Moikey.’ Silence fell for a while; then Bill chanced the big question: ‘What about yer parents, lad – they’ll be missin’ yeh, won’t they?’ Michael shook his head:

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. My Dad – all he ever did was get angry with me. And my Mum was too busy with Andy, and Ginny, to take much notice of me.’

  Bill glanced across at the boy, whose eyes were looking straight ahead, apparently intent upon steering the boat, but somehow unfocussed, as if staring into the past. His heart went out to this quiet, capable kid, who had proved his quick brain and eager adaptability so often, so effectively, over the last days. Impulsively, he reached over and put a hand on his shoulder; the grey-green eyes turned on him, glittering with unshed tears. Michael smiled:

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hanney.’

  ‘Noothin’ ter thank me fer, boy!’ Bill heard the gruffness of emotion in his own voice.

  ‘You saved my life, you and Billy. And you’ve given me a new life, all of you, one I want to live. Not like….’ Bill cleared his throat, looked around:

  ‘’Ere, watch wher’ yeh’re gooin, boy!’ Michael looked up, pulled the tiller over to straighten their course, a sudden grin splitting his face:

  ‘Sorry, Mr Hanney!’ And they were both laughing, the joy of life overcoming their embarrassment.

  * * *

  They found the Sycamore back in the water, tied up alongside the Antrim. Gracie had settled into the butty cabin:

  ‘Yeh’ll share the motor wi’ me, Moikey – yew can ’ave the soidebed, h’okay?’

  ‘That’s fine, Mr Baker.’ Michael had got used to the confines of a sidebed; he’d remained in the cabin of the Acorn, with Bill and Vi, while Billy and the two boys had used the butty cabin. He collected his few possessions from the boat, and carried them along the towpath to his new home; stepping down into the cabin, he found a pile of clothing already heaped on his bed. He looked up, puzzled, to see Albert smiling down from the hatches:

  ‘Folks ’oo’ve coom boy these last few days ’ave left ’em fer yeh. They’ve all ’eard about ’ow ’Anneys found yer, ’ow yeh ’aven’t got no kit ’o yer own.’ Michael could only stare, open-mouthed – he’d seen how little most boating families had, and for them to give of their limited resources to an unknown kid like him…

  ‘Boaters stick tergither, Moikey. We look after our own – ’n yeh’re a boater, now.’

  ‘I am? I mean…’ Baker laughed:

  ‘Look at yerself, boy! Yeh’re browner, ’n broader – ’n Oi swear yeh’ve grown two inches in a week!’

  ‘’E ’as that, Alby!’ He heard Vi confirm from the towpath outside.

  The moment had come: They all stood by the side of Hanneys’ pair, looking at each other, until Vi gathered the boy into her voluminous arms:

  ‘Tek care o’ yerself, Moikey – we’ll be seein’yer oop ’n down the cut.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The July sunshine blazed down as a pair of boats swung around the series of long turns to the North of Cosgrove village, on the Grand Union Canal. The long cold of the winter was gone and forgotten – the ‘phoney war’ had become a real war at last, with the Nazi onslaught on the Low Countries, followed by the invasion of France. A triumph of propaganda had changed the ignominious retreat from Dunkirk into at least a qualified victory, the almost miraculous survival of more than three hundred thousand apparently-doomed soldiers justifiably trumpeted to the heavens.

  Now, many miles from the peaceful vista of the canal, warplanes snarled and jockeyed for position over the coasts of Kent and Sussex, the sleek shapes of Hurricane and Spitfire pitted against the black-crossed hordes of Heinkels and Dorniers, and their Messerschmitt protectors. At sea, the U-boats were threatening to decimate allied shipping – and the abortive raids on German-occupied Norway had proved a disaster despite early successes.

  It was late in the day – an emergency stoppage to replace a split paddle-board at Stoke Bruerne locks had held them up for several hours. The boats swept under Solomon’s Bridge, and into the village; many years before, Cosgrove had been sliced in two by the building of the Grand Junction Canal, and now the passing boats still travelled under the watchful gaze of the church and the Barley Mow, looked down on the old stone cottages of Main Street.

  At the tiller of the motor boat, its paintwork bright and clean, its brasses gleaming in the evening sunshine, stood a tall, slim boy of eleven, clad in a grey check shirt a good few sizes too big for him, a flat cap crammed low over his soft grey-green eyes. Passing under the bridge, he lifted it and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, revealing a thatch of unruly straw-coloured hair. He bent to call down into the cabin:

  ‘Solomon’s, Mr Baker. Lock’s coomin’ up.’ He stood aside to allow the older man out onto the counter; Albert Baker dropped a battered old trilby hat onto his head, tucked a windlass into his belt:

  ‘H’okay, Moikey. Yeh’ll tek ’em through?’

  ‘’Kay, Mr Baker.’ He eased in the oil-rod, slowing the Bolinder from its rapid, steady beat to a slower rhythm, allowing the speed to come off the boat slowly, so that the butty didn’t over-run them but kept the towline tight. At the narrows of a long-dismantled swing-bridge, Albert stepped off the boat and hurried to the lock, which stood open for them – a pair, crossing them a mile or so North of the village had told them of its readiness – as Michael let the motor run in on one side, skilfully reversing the single-cylinder engine to bring it to a halt neatly within its confines. He turned to reel in the tow as the butty floated up, guided into the narrow space beside him by Gracie’s hand on the tiller. She brought it to a halt by strapping a rope over one of the motor’s stern dollies as he stepped off to push the gate closed behind the motor; Albert was already heaving on the butty’s gate. The two of them walked to the tail of the lock, simultaneously pulled both bottom paddles; in barely a minute, the lock was emptied to its lower level, and they pushed the gates open. Hurrying back to his tiller, Michael started the motor out of the lock; Albert stepped onto the counter beside him, paid out the towline again. As it drew taut, Michael eased down the throttle, allowing the rope to take the strain gently, then wound it on again, the butty now following them, a silent, captive shadow.

  Over six months, the three of them had become a skilled, efficient crew. Each task which was a part of commercial boating would be tackled almost without conscious effort, without thought; Albert Baker may have been the nominal captain of the pair, but he would rarely if ever need to utter a word of command. They would, with an easy rhythm, whistle the boats up a flight of locks, spin them into inch-perfect place on a wharf to load or unload, without the need to talk, each knowing what the other would do, working in concert like the various parts of a well-oiled machine. Michael’s respect for the old boatman had become a part of his way of life, and, while he didn’t perhaps recognise it, the man’s confidence in him was reflected in that lack of command. For his part, Albert saw and appreciated the boy’s abilities, his ever-growing self-confidence in the new life he had so eagerly adopted. Careful never to over-praise his young apprentice, he would nevertheless allow himself a quiet, proud smile as Michael casually slipped the motor past an oncoming pair in the confines of the tunnel, or passing over an aqueduct, with barely an inch of clear water between them.

  ‘’Ow far we goin’, Mr Baker?’

  ‘It’s getting’ late, boy – we’ll toy at the Galleon fer tonoight. Oi’d ’oped ter be ter Talbot’s, mebbe ’Ammond Three, boy now, boot…’ He shrugged: ‘Galleon’ll do.’

  The boy regarded him silently, sudden memories possessing his thoughts; Baker saw the look in his eyes:

  ‘That’s wher’ ’Anneys found yeh, wasn’ it?’ Michael just nodded.

  ‘Yeh’ll be close ter ’ome, then?’

  ‘My home’s here, on the boat, with
you!’ It was Albert’s turn to look at his young companion in silence for a moment, before he said gently:

  ‘Yes, boy, but yer old ’ome’s ’ere, isn’ it? Yer family?’ The boy nodded again; now, the look in his eyes was one of sorrow. Albert went to speak again, but thought better of it; he leant on the cabintop, watching the evening scenery pass by as Michael took the boats out onto the long embankment and over the old ‘iron trunk’ aqueduct above the River Ouse. Some ten minutes later, they were tying the boats on the towpath opposite the disused Wolverton Wharf, by the bridge carrying the Old Wolverton Road from where Michael had launched his abortive suicide attempt six months before. The boy was unusually silent, and Albert left him to his thoughts, his memories, as they tucked into the evening meal which Gracie had prepared as they ran around the pound. Gracie herself, even more aware of the significance of the spot, kept an eye on Michael, trying to judge his mood and react sympathetically.

  The meal done, all three of them trekked over the hump-back bridge to the pub for a last refresher before bed. Over his pint of bitter, Albert said casually that he thought they might make a later start the next morning:

  ‘But we’re all be’ind already, after that stoppage!’

  ‘Exac’ly, Moikey! Anoother hour or two woon’t ’urt, then, will it?’ Grey-green eyes regarded the boatman, knowing full well what he was offering, uncertain whether to take advantage of the unspoken suggestion. Gracie broke the silence, at last:

  ‘A loy-in moight be noice, fer a change, at that!’ Desperate to change the subject, not wanting to discuss the possibilities, Michael wondered what they’d be likely to load for the return North from Brentford, this trip, and the conversation, by mutual, unspoken agreement, stayed with other matters until they returned to the boats, and their beds.

  Albert Baker rose the next morning at his habitual six-thirty a.m. He smiled at the already-vacant sidebed – he’d heard Michael rise a while before – but his smile held an overtone of concern, as well. Climbing out onto the counter, he tapped on the side of the butty cabin; the hatch slid open, and Gracie’s head popped out:

  ‘Tea, Ooncle Alby?’ She passed him a steaming cup without waiting for his reply.

  ‘Thank yeh, Gracie.’

  ‘’E’s gone, then?’

  ‘Ah. ’Eard him git oop a whoile back.’ They both sipped tea in silence, until Gracie expressed both their thoughts:

  ‘Will ’e be back, d’yeh think?’ Albert hesitated:

  ‘Oi ’ope so, Gracie. We need a third ’and wi’ the pair.’ She stared at him, angered by his apparently mercenary attitude to the boy:

  ‘So do Oi, Albert Baker – boot only ’cause Oi’ll miss ’im if ’e don’t!’ He glanced over, then avoided her gaze:

  ‘’E’s a good little boater, near as good as Alex was at ’is age.’ He looked up again: ‘All roight! Yes, Oi’m fond of ’im, too. Oi’d miss ’im – boot Oi’m already missin’ Alex, ’n Rita, ’n…’ The girl reached out and took his hand:

  ‘Oi know, Ooncle Alby. When the war’s over, Alex’ll be ’ome – ’e’ll marry ’is Iris, ’n then yeh’ll have four o’ yeh, wi’ Moikey. That’ll be a good crew, oone o’ the best on Fellers’s!’ Baker smiled at her, grateful for her words, but still reluctant to admit his feelings:

  ‘Wher’s that boy got teh? We should be gittin’ ahead!’

  ‘We’ll wait ’til ’e gets back, Albert! ’E’ll not be any longer’n ’e can ’elp.’

  ‘What if ’e’s ’ad enooff, decoides teh stay wi’ ’is folks?’

  ‘We’ll give ’im toime teh git back!’ But her heart told her that the boatman might be right, that the child, for child he still was, might so easily sink back into the bosom of his family, now that the opportunity was there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michael had not slept well that night. Tossing and turning on the narrow sidebed, thoughts chased dreams chased memories: His home, and little Ginny, and was she all right? His first night on a boat, after Billy Hanney had dragged him out of the canal by this very same bridge, and his amazement at finding himself not only still alive, but catapulted into a new, exciting, unknown life. His life since that night, the hard work, the long days, the muck and grime of some of the loads they carried, the physical slog of loading and unloading – and the joy of long summer days at the tiller, the ever-changing scenery, the new places to see, new friends to meet along the way, old friends like Stevie and Jack to greet eagerly as they passed, to play with when they happened to be at the same stop together…

  Around six o’clock, he’d given up the unequal struggle and climbed out onto the counter. It was another fine morning, the sun already up, striking over the cutting beyond the bridge and just clipping the chimney of the old wharfinger’s house. The air was warm against his skin, the gentlest of breezes stroking him, making him glad, oh so glad, just to be alive. He sat on the cants, dabbling his toes in the water of the canal, enjoying its slight chill, his thoughts once more returning to the events of that night…

  They’d passed this way many times over the last six months, of course. But their schedule had never included a stop anywhere near, the need to ‘get ’em ahead’ paramount, ruling their days and their night-time resting-places. It was just chance that that stoppage at Stoke had held them up, made this a logical place to spend a night… Or was it? Was fate rather telling him that now was the time to make contact with his family, let them know he was all right, find out how they were faring? He pondered, disturbed by his uncertainty, knowing that Gracie and Mr Baker had been throwing such hints at him the night before – if he went, would they wait for him? How long? It would be an ironic disaster if he went to find his own family, only to be left behind by the people he was now thinking of as his new family… Gracie was still very much, in his eyes, somewhere between a big sister and a surrogate mother; and he found himself ever fonder of Mr Baker, at times almost thinking of the boatman as his new father, even if the man himself kept a slightly formal distance between them.

  Let fate decide! His mind made up, Michael rose to his feet and stepped down into the cabin again. He slipped on his cleanest shirt, plain white, with no collar, and rolled up the sleeves; rooting through the drawer under his bed, he dug out his old school trousers – a bit rumpled, but still smarter than the ones he wore most of the time! Socks and boots on his feet, he climbed out once more, stepped gingerly over the butty’s stern and out onto the bank. As long as they’d wait for him! He could leave them a note! He shook his head at his own stupidity – that wouldn’t do much good, would it? Even now, he found it difficult, at times, to remember that those around him couldn’t read. He stepped back for a moment, descended into the motor cabin, found his most prized possession, a carved model aeroplane which Mr Baker had made for him, knowing his fascination with that part of the war, the heroics of Britain’s fighter pilots. He placed it prominently on his bed, where it would be seen – that should tell them that he would be back!

  On the bank again, he began to walk away, up to the bridge. As he turned underneath it, he glanced back at the boats, sitting deep-laden by the towpath, suddenly anxious, knowing that he mustn’t let them down, hold them up for too long… What if they didn’t wait? What if he came back to find them gone…? He almost gave up, turned back; but no, they’d wait, they wouldn’t desert him! He turned and went on. At Suicide Bridge, he climbed up the bank, crossed over and found the footpath, followed it through to Stratford Road, saw no-one in that early-morning hour on the pavement all the way along the wall of the railway works until he reached the junction with Windsor Street. He crossed over the road, and stood for a moment, looking around, remembering… He walked on along the silent, deserted street of his childhood, feeling the house that had been his home for so long drawing him closer with every step…

  …100, 102, 104, 106…108! He turned in through the garden gate – and stopped dead. The windows were boarded up, the plants in his mother’s two big pots overcome with weeds, grass
creeping out between the flagstones – what was happening? He checked the number, almost thinking he’d stopped at the wrong house – 108! He stood in the gateway, a hand on each gatepost, feeling small, lost, shattered…

  Janet Eastwood was up, as always, at six that morning. Life had settled back into its everlasting routine – nothing had ever been heard of little Michael from next door, most people now assumed that he was dead. They’d searched for him everywhere, dragged the canal and the river, but his body hadn’t been found, either – so it was all a mystery, really. Nettie had never quite got over it, still mourning her eldest son; and Ginny was so quiet, these days, not her old self at all even after six months… Reg had just got even angrier with everyone, especially himself, of course, until…

  She shook her head, went downstairs to put the kettle on for Eric’s tea; she’d let him sleep a few more minutes, there was time enough for his breakfast before he’d have to set off for work! Kettle on, toast under the grill, she went into the front room to quickly sweep the floor, tidy up ready for the new day. Movement beyond the window caught her eye a she drew the curtains back, took down the blackout screens – a youngster, walking past, something familiar about him… The boy turned at the next house, stopped in the gate; she leant forward for a better look, then hurried, unbelieving, to the front door, snatched it open, stared…

  It wasn’t until she spoke that Michael saw the woman in the doorway of the next house.

  ‘Michael?’ Her voice held disbelief, amazement; he looked around:

  ‘Hello, Mrs Eastwood.’

  ‘Michael! It’s really you?’ He smiled, nodded:

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Eastwood, really!’ He looked up at the house: ‘What’s happened – where’s my Mum, and Ginny, and…?’ The woman gazed at him, her eyes suddenly full of compassion:

  ‘Come in Michael. I’ll… Come on in, please?’ He hesitated: