A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  ‘I mustn’t be long, they’re waiting for me.’

  ‘Who, Michael? Who’s waiting for you?’

  ‘Oh – I’ll tell you in a minute!’ She looked flustered:

  ‘Yes – come on in, Michael!’ He did as he was bid; she ushered him inside, led him through to the kitchen, clucking over him:

  ‘Just look at you! You’re so brown – and you’ve grown! Taller than ever; and I swear you’ve filled out a lot, too…’ She sat him in a chair by the table, then snatched the pan out from under the grille where Eric’s toast was beginning to smoke, tutted at her own inattention as she replaced the ruined bread with two fresh slices. Impatient for her news, Michael prompted her:

  ‘What about Ginny, and Mum, and Andy, where are they? And… and my Dad?’ Janet turned from the cooker, her eyes full of sympathy again, and took a seat facing him over the table. She reached across, took both of his hands in her own:

  ‘Oh, Michael! They’re not here, any more…’

  ‘I can see that, Mrs Eastwood – but where are they?’ She held his eyes for a moment longer, squeezed his hands:

  ‘Oh, Michael! I don’t know how to say this!’ She paused, then plunged on: ‘Your father’s dead, Michael, that’s why your Mum moved. He… he got into a fight, at the pub, one night after work. It was no-one’s fault, he fell over, hit his head on the edge of the bar, as they were arguing. They took him to hospital, but he died the same night. I’m so sorry, Michael!’ The boy looked down at his hands, raised his eyes again:

  ‘I’m not. He only ever got angry with me, and everyone! He used to hit me, all the time; and Mum too, he used to beat her up, sometimes! He…’ He hesitated, feeling tears beginning to spill from his eyes despite his words: ‘What about them, are they all right?’ Janet squeezed his hands again, then got up to turn over the toast:

  ‘They’re doing all right, Michael! They went to live with your Gran and Granddad in Buckingham, after the funeral. I see them now and then, and your Mum writes to me, sometimes. Ginny’s in a new school, there; and Andy’s doing well, too. Your mum’s got a little job, at the printing works. They’re fine! And they’re going to be so pleased to know you’re okay, you’re alive, after all this time!’

  ‘No! I mean… You mustn’t tell them… Oh, I don’t know!’ She turned to him in surprise:

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Michael – of course I’ve got to tell them, they’ve been so worried about you!’ He held her gaze for a moment, then shook his head:

  ‘No… I’m – not ready. I mean – they’ll only try and make me go home…’

  ‘And you don’t want to?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a new life, Mrs Eastwood, I… I’m a boater, now – and that’s what I want to be! When I’m older, I’ll have my own boats, and… I don’t want to go home.’

  Janet stood, looking down at the boy, seeing the determination in his face; he seemed different, somehow – more grown up, as well as taller, fitter:

  ‘So what about you, Michael? Where have you been, all this time?’ Those suddenly-adult grey-green eyes held hers for a moment:

  ‘If I tell you – will you promise not to tell anyone?’ She studied him, not sure if she should accept those terms; but the appeal was still in his eyes: ‘Promise?’ She hesitated, but then gave in:

  ‘Okay – I promise! But can’t I at least let your Mum know that you’re all right?’

  ‘No, please! Not yet – I’ll get in touch with them one day, but not now. She’d only try and persuade me to go home with them, and… I’ll go and see them, one day, I promise – but please don’t say anything to them, not yet, please?’

  ‘All right – if you’re sure, Michael…?’

  ‘I’m sure! You see, what happened was…’ The tale took almost half an hour to tell, as Janet bustled about preparing Eric’s breakfast; then she had a whole raft of questions for him. Aware of passing time, he eventually ducked out, saying that he had to go, that he couldn’t keep the boats waiting any longer. Just as he stood up to leave, the kitchen door opened:

  ‘Good God – Michael?’ Eric Eastwood stood there, ready for breakfast and quite unready to find a supposedly-dead child in his kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Mr Eastwood – I’ve got to go!’

  ‘What…How…Michael…!’

  ‘Let him go, Eric, I’ll tell you all about it.’ Janet ushered the boy to the door, quickly drawing him into an embrace as he turned to go: ‘Take care of yourself, Michael – come and see us again, when you can, okay?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Eastwood, and – not a word to my Mum, or anyone, please?’ She nodded:

  ‘You can trust me, Michael – but you will get in touch with them soon, won’t you?’

  ‘I promise!’

  The boy was gone; she turned to go back to the kitchen and try to explain his resurrection to her flabbergasted husband.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘’E’ll not be mooch longer!’ Gracie’s voice held a hint of impatience as Albert Baker looked at his watch, dropped it back into the pocket of his waistcoat, for about the hundredth time since breakfast.

  It was a rare treat for them to eat the first meal of the day sitting down, in the butty cabin – usually, they would be well on the way, and eat on the go: Routine was for Albert to begin the day steering the motor, while Michael rode the butty with Grace; when the breakfast was ready, he would take his own and the captain’s, run forward along the top-planks to the fore-deck, and jump across as Albert let the motor slow until the butty caught up. Then on, they would share the steering on open pounds, leaving the butty to Grace, who, with the consummate skill of the born-and-bred boatwoman, would manage to steer, tidy up, cook the next meal, even wash some of their ‘smalls’, all at the same time.

  ‘We should be gettin’ on, girl.’ Albert withdrew his watch again, glanced down at it. Grace just gave him a pitying look; she got to her feet:

  ‘Oi’m goin’ ter sweep out in your cabin, Ooncle Alby – Oi don’t suppose the two o’ yeh’ve doon it fer ages! Yew could busy yerself polishing the brasses or soomat, instead o’ sittin’ there frettin’.’ She left the cabin; he shrugged his shoulders, got up to follow her. As he climbed out into the well, she stuck her head back out of the motor’s cabin:

  ‘’E’s left ’is Spitfoire ’ere, on the soidebed!’

  ‘Yeah – Oi saw it ther’, before.’

  ‘Well, doon’t yeh see? ’E’s left it wher’ we’d see it to tell oos ’e’ll be back!’

  ‘Yeh think so?’

  ‘O’ course! ’E thinks the world o’ that – if ’e was goin’ off, ’e’d a’ teken it wi’ ’im, would’n ’e?’

  ‘Mebbe…’

  ‘O-oh!’ She turned and flounced back down into the cabin, out of patience with her uncle’s lack of understanding. Albert stepped around the gunwale to the engine-hole doors, swung them open and began to lower himself inside, going to get the cloths and metal polish as she had suggested; but he looked up quickly at a hail from the bank:

  ‘Coom on, we should be gettin’ ’em ahead by now!’

  ‘Moichael – yeh’re back!’ He quickly extinguished the delighted smile which had sprung unconsciously to his face.

  ‘Of course – did yeh think I might not be?’

  ‘Course not – not fer a moment. Git on oover ’ere, ’elp me git the motor started – Gracie! We’re away, girl!’ Her head appeared from the cabin; she gave Michael a big grin as she climbed out, stepped back over to her own boat and onto the bank ready to loose them away:

  ‘Everythin’ h’okay, Moikey?’ He shook his head:

  ‘They’re not there, Gracie. My Dad’d dead, and my Mum’s moved – our next-door-neighbour’s been telling me all about it.’

  ‘Oh, Moikey!’ She put an arm around his shoulders, held him tight for a moment.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later, Gracie. We’d better get goin’ now.’

  ‘Yes – h’okay, Moikey. Yew go ’n ‘elp wi’ the motor – ’ave y
eh ’ad any brekfuss?’ He shook his head.

  ‘Oi’ll get yeh soomat, when we’re away, roight?’

  ‘Okay – thanks.’

  Under Galleon Bridge, then Suicide Bridge, and all around the back of the railway works, Michael steered the butty while Gracie bustled below, making him some breakfast. She felt his unusual silence, sensed his preoccupation with his thoughts; when she stepped out again, took the tiller from him while he ate, she prompted him gently to tell her what he’d found. Between bites, he passed on all that Janet Eastwood had told him; when he’d finished, she regarded him with a deep sympathy in her eyes:

  ‘Oi’m sorry, Moikey – about yer Dad. Will yeh get in tooch wi’ yer Mum, ’n Ginny?’ He sat silent for a moment:

  ‘Yeah – I guess I will, one day. But – I don’t feel ready to see them, now… Can you understand?’

  ‘Yeah – Oi think so. Boot, yeh should let ’em know yeh’re all roight, stop ’em frettin’ about yeh, don’t yeh think?’ He shrugged:

  ‘Maybe – but not yet! They’d only put pressure on me, to go back – and I don’t want to, I want to stay here, with you, and Mr Baker!’ One arm resting on the tiller, she drew him into the other’s embrace, squeezed his shoulders:

  ‘’N we wouldn’t want teh be without yeh, Moikey. Boot Oi’ll be away, oone day – Oi’m goin’ teh marry moy Joey, ’n then we’ll ’ave our own boats. Oh, not yet awhoile!’ She assured him, seeing the stricken look on his face: ‘Mebbe boy then, the war’ll be oover, ’n Alex’ll be ’ome. ’E’s gooin’ ter marry Iris Ward, ’n then they’ll coom on the boats wi’ Mr Baker, Oi ’spect. Yeh’ll loike Alex, ’e’s’a foine feller!’

  ‘Yeah…’ Michael had formed an impression of an upright, strong young man from the few letters he’d read out to Albert, the replys he’d written for the boatman: ‘But – when he’s back, will Mr Baker need me as well? Will he want me on the boats, then, if his son’s here?’ Grace glanced down, saw the impending sadness in the boy’s eyes:

  ‘If ’e don’t, Moikey, yew coom wi’ me ’n moy Joey – we’ll foind work for yeh!’ The sparkle came back to his face:

  ‘You mean it? You’d have me with you?’

  ‘Course Oi mean it, Moikey – yeh’re me spare little brother, ent yeh?’ He threw his arms around her not-insubstantial waist, hugged her tight:

  ‘’Ey, lit go! Yeh’ll ’ave me oop the bank!’ He sat back on the gunwale, smiling up at her; then he said, thoughtfully:

  ‘I’d miss him – Mr Baker, I mean. He’s been very good to me, and… and…’

  ‘Yew loike ’im a lot, don’t yeh?’ The boy nodded:

  ‘Yeah – but I’m not sure if he likes me much. I mean, he never says anything…’

  ‘’E loikes yeh more’n yeh think, Moikey. Yeh should’a seen ’im this mornin’, frettin’ ’cause yeh weren’t back!’

  ‘Yeah – I suppose…’ Michael sat in thought for a moment: ‘He’s been almost like a new Dad for me – I mean, he’s taught me so much, showed me so much about the life here, given me a new home – but if I say anything, he kind of brushes it off, you know? And now my real Dad’s dead…’

  ‘Oi oonderstand, Moikey – boot give ’im toime? ’E’s not long lost ’is woife, remember – Rita was a lovely woman, ’n Oi’m certain ’e still misses ’er. ’N ’e woories about Alex, too, in case ’e gets ’urt, or worse – ’e’s got a lot on ’is moind, yeh see? Doon’t expect too mooch from ’im – boot ’e doos loike yeh, a lot, Oi knoo that.’

  ‘Yeah… Thanks, Gracie!’ He looked up at the girl: ‘I love you, big sister!’ She laughed:

  ‘Oi love yeh too, little brother!’

  The next couple of hours were spent in a gentle, companionable silence. Michael had climbed up onto the cabin roof, sat himself on its front edge, legs dangling down over the open hold above the piles of steel tube stacked below; he seemed deep in thought, and Grace had the sensitivity to leave him be.

  He thought, remembered times past, his old home, his mother, Andy, especially Ginny – should he get in touch with them now, or leave it? His conscience said now – but he knew that they would only insist on him going home again, against his will – and could he resist their pleadings? He doubted it – so, better to leave them in ignorance of his survival, at least for now. Later, when he was more settled, more established…

  He thought of the Hanneys, of Bill and Vi, of their kindness to an unknown runaway; of Billy, quiet, self-possessed master of the boating craft at the ripe age of fourteen; of Stevie and Jack, so unstoppably full of life, so proud of their way of life, their growing abilities in the world that was their home. And Gracie: He turned to smile at the girl, leaning capably on the heavy curved tiller of the butty, was rewarded with one of her wide, beaming smiles in return. Since they had together crewed for Albert Baker, his feelings for her had grown to something close to love – the deep bond of a younger brother for his older sister, for the girl who would treat him anywhere between a friend and a child, as she sensed his need.

  He thought of Albert Baker, the man he had come to trust so implicitly that he would do anything the man bid, even if it seemed crazy, dangerous, to him. As he’d said to Gracie, the man had become like a surrogate father to him, filling the void of instruction and inspiration that his own father had never offered; he found himself wishing that the man was his father – why couldn’t he have been born to a boater, instead of…? He felt a great sympathy for him, too – he’d known, understood, the gap left in his life by the death of his wife, of course, but before Gracie’s words that morning, he hadn’t really thought about how the absence of his son must affect the man, the knowledge that Alex was always in danger, at risk of injury, even death, in the cause of peace and justice for the world.

  Alex knew about Michael, of course – the first letter he’d written for the boatman had included an explanation of his own arrival, of how he and Gracie were to be a crew, were to ensure that his father could continue his career. The reply which eventually came had been close to ecstatic, the young man delighted that his father was going to stay on his beloved boats after all. And there had been a note for Michael, too:

  ‘Michael – I’m so grateful, so happy, that you and Gracie are going to work with my Dad. It would kill him, I know, if he had to leave the boats, and it means so much to me to know that the two of you will be there with him, looking after him, while I’m away. I don’t know if I’ll get any shore leave, any time soon – we’re a long way away at the moment, and I don’t know when we might get back to England – but I’m really looking forward to meeting you, one day, and thanking you properly. Until then, take care of yourself as well, and give my love to Gracie.’

  There had been only a couple more letters from him; each time, there was a note for Michael, a few lines of such amusing anecdotes about the war at sea as would pass the censor’s erasing pen. In the last, he’d signed himself as ‘your new big brother, Alex.’, a fact which had boosted Michael’s spirits to level almost as high as the snarling Spitfires which so held his imagination. He’d not read these notes out to Albert, accepting them as his own private communications – not wishing to be secretive, he’d told the man of the first one, but Albert had simply said ‘if it’s for yew, boy, then yeh can tell me about it or not, as yeh loike.’ So he’d chosen to keep them to himself, hugging them to his heart as something precious, even if they were only casual jottings from someone he’d never met.

  Approaching Fenny Lock, he’d jumped off under the awkward, angled bridge and run forward, windlass in hand, to set it ready. Once through the lock, so shallow as to be almost insignificant, which began their climb up from the Ouse valley into the Chiltern Hills, Albert had had him take over the motor, while he pottered about, checking the engine and cleaning the brasses, the job he’d not got started on before their delayed departure from the Galleon.

  The climb continued all day: Talbot’s Lock, Hammond Three, Leighton, Grove, Church, Slapton, Horton, Corkett’s Two, N
ag’s Head Three, Peter’s Two, and at last, Maffers - the delightful, twisting flight of seven that led uphill from Marsworth to Bulbourne. They tied that night opposite the canal company works in Bulbourne, still echoing so late in the evening to the manufacture of lock gates for the Grand Union Canal. They’d eaten, as they often did, earlier, taking the meal Gracie had prepared in the short spells between locks; now, they tied the boats, breasted, the butty to the bank as usual.

  Albert swung himself down into the engine-hole to still the aging Bolinder; re-emerging, he gestured at the Grand Junction Arms which loomed over the canal by the bridge:

  ‘Coom on; quick wash ’n broosh oop, ’n we’ll goo fer a drink in the Joonction.’

  ‘Roight yew are, Ooncle Alby.’ Michael, his mind still partly absorbed in his earlier musings, replied without thinking:

  ‘Okay, Dad.’

  An instant silence fell. Gracie looked at Michael, at first thunderstruck, but then with a smile spreading slowly across her homely face; Albert’s jaw dropped, and he stood gaping at the boy for a moment, a variety of expressions chasing each other through his eyes:

  ‘Oi’m not yer father, boy, ’n Oi never will be!’ Michael felt stricken, wishing he’d switched his brain on before opening his mouth:

  ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean… Oh!’ Gracie, for her part, was glaring at the boatman:

  ‘Albert Baker!’ He glanced at her, turned back to the boy, realising how much his gruffness had upset him:

  ‘What made yeh say that, Moikey?’ His voice was softer now, gentler.

  ‘I… You’ve been almost like a Dad to me, since… you know! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you…’ Albert walked around the gunwale to where he stood on the counter, took the boy’s shoulders in is hands:

  ‘Yeh’re not moy son, Moikey – boot whoy any man wouldn’t be proud ter ’ave yer fer ’is son, Oi’ll never know. Now go on, git yerself clean ’n toidy!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Baker!’ The boy dived down into the cabin, stripped off his sweaty shirt and grabbed the handbowl ready for a quick wash. Albert looked at Gracie: