‘Oi don’t mean ter be grumpy wi’ the kid, boot…’
‘Alex?’
‘Yeah. Yew oonderstand?’
‘Oi think ’e doos, ’n all!’ She gestured with her head at the open cabin doors.
‘Yeah. Mebbe ’e doos, at that.’
Chapter Nineteen
That trip was to suffer further hold-ups. The next day, they’d barely cleared Cowroast Lock, at the far end of the Tring Summit, when the Bolinder began to cough, and then died altogether. Muttering curses under his breath, Albert dived down into the engine-hole while Michael and Grace brought the boats in to the bank; a couple of minutes later, his head appeared in the side doors:
‘It’s only a bit o’ moock in the oil loine, Oi reckon. Tek me ’bout ’alf an hour, if we’re loocky.’
‘Is there anythin’ I can do to help?’ The boatman shook his head:
‘Not really, Moikey – ent room fer two of oos in ’ere, any road. Boot Oi’ll show yeh what ter do, one day when we’ve got toime, h’okay? Fer now, yew two sit ’n h’enjoy the soonshoine!’
‘Coom on, Moikey, we’ll goo fer a walk, stretch our legs, shall we?’
The two of them strolled away, to Albert’s ‘’Alf an hour, moind!’, along the towpath towards the locks of Northchurch. Michael was still feeling somewhat bereft, following the news of his family; after a few steps, his hand sought Gracie’s, and they walked on, hand in hand. At last, he broke the friendly silence:
‘Am I a really bad person, Gracie?’ She turned to him, surprised at such a question:
‘Whatever d’yeh mean?’
‘Well – I ought to feel sad, that my Dad’s dead. But… I don’t, not really. I’m… almost pleased – not for me, but… because he can’t hurt my Mum any more, or get angry with Ginny, now that I’m not there… I must be pretty bad, don’t you think?’ She stopped, took his other hand as well, shook him gently:
‘Yeh’re not bad, Moikey! ’E was a tyrant, from what yeh’ve told oos, ’n Oi don’t think ’e deserves yeh ter be sad fer ’im. So yew stop worryin’ about it, yeh ’ear?’
He looked into her eyes for a moment, then gave her a thin smile:
‘If you say so!’
‘Oi do!’ She smiled back; they walked on a little further, then:
‘I do love you, Gracie – not, like a girlfriend, kind of love, you understand?’
‘Oi should ’ope not! Moy Joey’d ’ave a thing or two ter say about that!’ She chuckled: ‘Loike Oi said before, yeh’re moy extra little brother, aren’t yeh?’ He just nodded, happy in their mutual affection. They strolled on; after a while, Gracie said:
‘We’d better be getting’ back, see ’ow Ooncle Alby’s gettin’ on.’
They could hear his muttered curses as they approached the boats; Michael put his head around the engine-hole doors:
‘’Ow’s it going, Mr Baker?’
‘Almoost doon, Moikey. Took me a whoile ter foind the problem, boot Oi’ve got it now. Joost got teh put these poipes back, ’n we’ll be off.’
Ten minutes, and he was proved right – the engine settled again to its reliable thumping, and they were running down the hill, into the Thames valley.
* * *
They’d unloaded the boats, were relaxing with a cup of tea while Gracie tackled their pile of dirty clothes, pounding them in the old barrel which she kept on the butty for the purpose, soapsuds blowing into the gentle breeze. The local traffic manager bustled up:
‘Steerer Baker – you’ve orders to load at Regent’s Canal Dock, a shipment of some special alloy, urgent, for Fazeley Street Wharf.’
‘Oh, ar? Goin’ empty ter Loime’us, then?’
‘That’s right – they want you there as quickly as possible.’
‘Better git gooin’ then. Yew doon there, Gracie?’
‘Foive minutes, Ooncle Alby!’ He nodded to the manager:
‘We’ll be away, then.’
‘Very good – here’s your starting money.’
Ten minutes, and they were on their way, the butty on cross-straps, pulled up tight behind the motor’s stern, both stems riding high out of the water. Gracie hung the washing out as they went, on spare ropes slung along the butty’s empty hold; there was a twinkle in her eye:
‘Gracie seems pleased, Mr Baker?’ Albert chuckled:
‘Aye, I’ll bet! If we’re on a Birnigum run, she’ll ’ave more chance o’ runnin’ across Joey Caplin!’
The young couple’s romance had been making very slow progress – since Baker’s new crew had been formed, they had been running between Nottingham and Brentford, sometimes loading at City Road Basin in Camden for the Northward trip, while Henry Caplin ran a pair of Grand Union boats, on a regular run between Birmingham and London – so, for more than half of each trip, their boats had been on different water. Their meetings had been few, and mostly fleeting as the pairs passed in the usual haste to ‘get ’em ahead’.
The next day, they were loading in the riverside dock at Limehouse. In the distant sky, from time to time could be seen the twisting vapour trails of aircraft; sometimes, the aggressive snarl of an engine, Merlin or Daimler-Benz, would sound over the constant clamour and clatter of the dock, causing Michael to pause in his work and look up to the battle raging above the horizon:
‘Fascinates yeh, doosn’ it, boy?’ Michael looked around at his captain, a grin on his face:
‘If I was old enough, I’d be a fighter pilot!’
‘Would yeh now?’ The boy nodded, turned his attention back to the distant dogfight, cheered as one trail suddenly turned to black smoke, a stricken plane spiralling down. He looked around, the light of his excitement shining in his eyes:
‘We got one!’ Albert regarded him, reluctant to shatter his illusion; but then he said:
‘Ow d’yeh know that’s oone o’ theirs, ’n not oone of ours?’
‘I… Well…’
‘Whether it’s ours or theirs, Moikey, there’s a yoong feller in that aeroplane, mebbe more’n oone. A yoong feller, ’oo’s p’raps ’urt, p’raps even dead.’ Michael stared at him, as the meaning of his words sank in; Albert went on: ‘That’s what war’s really about, boy – men gooin’ off, smart ’n proud in their uniforms, ’n a lot of ’em never coomin’ ’ome again. Yeh see?’ There was a deep sadness behind the man’s eyes; Michael put down the heavy ingot of metal he’d been holding, went over to his mentor:
‘Alex is goin’ teh be all right, Mr Baker – ’e’ll be ’ome, right as rain, you’ll see!’ Albert looked down at him, nodded:
‘’Course ’e will, Moikey. Oi’m joost bein’ silly.’ Impulsively, Michael put his arms around the man’s waist, held him tightly for a moment before going back to his job, carefully not looking him in the eye. The boatman watched him go, turned his smile away so the boy wouldn’t see it.
* * *
They’d made good progress, heading North with their special cargo. Back around the Regent’s Canal, up the Paddington Arm and so onto the Grand Union; over the steady rise of the Chilterns, and running down again into the Ouse Valley. They were in the rolling farmland, heading to Horton Lock, when Michael turned his gaze to the East:
‘Look, Mr Baker!’ Albert, standing on the gunwale, puffing at his pipe, glanced over his shoulder:
‘Oi think ’e’s in trouble, Moikey.’ A lone aircraft was approaching, slowly losing height over the gently sloping fields, aiming to cross the canal not far in front of them. Its engine sounded rough, hesitating, coughing, running on for moment before coughing again. They watched as it came closer; then the engine gave a last splutter and fell silent – the propeller windmilled to a halt, and the Spitfire, gliding now, drifted lower and lower. It skimmed over the canal, no more than fifty yards from them; its underside, the radiators slung below the wings, snagging in the top of the towpath hedge; further slowed, it touched down in the adjacent field, a thick cloud of pale yellow dust billowing up as the ripening wheat cushioned its impact, braked it quickly to a h
alt.
‘Roon ’er inteh the soide, Moikey, we’ll go see if we can ’elp!’ He wound back the throttle, knocked out the clutch and allowed the boat to run along the towpath edge, the friction quickly bringing it to a halt; behind, Gracie was doing the same with the butty.
‘Yew stay ’ere wi’ the boats, Gracie!’ Albert and Michael struggled through the hedge, ran across the swath of flattened crop to where the aircraft had come to rest; as they came close, Albert stopped, put out a hand to halt his companion:
‘Wait ’ere, Moikey, let me go fust.’ He’d seen the bullet-holes peppering the side of the fuselage, realised the likely meaning of that awful pattern; he went on, but Michael, not to be put off, followed close behind. Albert went up to the side of the plane, looked in through the Perspex of the canopy, and turned away, shaking his head; Michael ducked under his arm, and looked in also:
‘Oh, my God!’ Albert grabbed the boy, pulled him into his arms to stop him looking, held him close. The pilot had to have been hit a number of times; the cockpit was a horrifying sight, liberally sprayed with blood. Now, he hung in the restraining straps, unmoving, beyond any help they might have been able to give. Whether he had survived long enough to turn away from the fight, head back inland, or whether the plane, following some incomprehensible mechanical instinct, had sought to return its dead pilot to his home, no-one would ever know.
Albert gently led Michael away, back to the boats, passed him over to Gracie while he set off on foot to the next lock, where he could get the keeper to telephone the news of the plane’s whereabouts to the correct authorities. Returning, half an hour later, he found the boy still shocked, sitting quietly in the cabin with Gracie’s arm around his shoulders, holding the toy plane he’d made for him in his hands. Tear-stained eyes lifted to meet his:
‘Mr Baker…’
‘It’s all roight, boy, yew tek yer toime.’ ’E’s still only a kid, fer all that! ’N a kid shouldn’t see things loike that…’
Albert Baker was no craftsman, with wood. That model aeroplane could as easily have been Spitfire or Hurricane; or even, truth to tell, a Messerschmitt 109 – that had never mattered to Michael. But from that day, it was never played with again; no more imaginary dogfights took place while they were waiting for orders, no sorties over occupied France ranged across the towpath at the end of the day. Sometimes, in moments of quiet contemplation, he would be found in the cabin, sitting silent on the sidebed, turning it over in his hands, sadness for all those young men who wouldn’t be going home wetting his cheeks.
Chapter Twenty
The summer of 1940 had been long, dry, hot. Hermann Goering’s attempt to steamroller the Royal Air Force out of existence had been frustrated by those brave, talented few whose dogged determination had seen off the hordes of the Luftwaffe; talking of it in a speech, Winston Churchill had coined the phrase ‘Battle of Britain’. Now the Reichsmarschall’s anger was being turned on Britain’s industry, her cities. In North Africa, two armies struggled back and forth across the desert, like two well-matched wrestlers in an unbreakable clinch; the continuing cat and mouse game of convoy, escort and U-boat made up the war at sea, enlivened occasionally by the appearance of one of Hitler’s powerful surface raiders.
September had long been swallowed by the winds; now October saw the amber tints of autumn darkening towards the colder shades of winter. Hallowe’en: A pair of boats, heavy laden, running down the thick of Hatton Locks; three locks ahead, another pair, bearing the same gold-lined red and green livery. Knowing they were followed, and having the larger crew, the leading pair were setting the locks back for their fellows; friendly rivalry meant that, while they strove to pull away, the second pair were trying just as hard to catch up. A boy in his mid-teens stood at the helm of the first motor boat, taking the breasted pair while his parents and younger brothers formed the crew on the bank; the captain of the second steered himself, while an older girl and a slim, wiry lad wound paddles and pushed gates for him.
That night, both crews met in the Cape of Good Hope. Chance had brought the Hanney family together for this trip, Grace, with Albert Baker’s boats, rostered on the same job as her father’s; both were carrying empty shell cases from Birmingham to Brentford, and the evening was spent in high merriment. Gracie had been in good spirits for some time – since their special cargo, back in the summer, Albert’s boats had been engaged on a regular run to and from FMC’s Fazeley Street depot in Birmingham, back-loading from Brentford or sometimes the City Road Basin. The fact that Henry Caplin’s Grand Union pair were on a similar schedule made for frequent meetings, and her romance with Joey was blossoming, the young man often hopping on his bike and cycling for miles to see her of an evening, if their respective boats were within striking distance.
The next morning, a Northbound pair, headed to New Warwick Wharf with cocoa for onward shipment to Manchester, set away early and left the two locks in their favour. The Acorn was first away, Bill Hanney anticipating Albert’s intention to sneak past before he was ready; as they dropped through the first lock, the two younger boys ran ahead to set the second. Michael and Grace stood ready, windlasses in hand, while Albert kept the Sycamore’s engine idling, waiting for the lock to be reset for him.
All through the morning, they ran in convoy, across the valley floor through Warwick and Leamington Spa, and then began the climb up towards the Braunston summit: Radford and the Fosse, Welsh Road, and so to Bascote, all locks, like the flights of Knowle, Hatton and Stockton, rebuilt in the 1930s with the distinctive ‘Candlestick’ paddle gear. At Bascote, Bill’s pair had managed to be a little way ahead, working through the two separate locks below the riser; now, they were in the lower chamber of the staircase as Albert ran his pair into the bottom lock. Pulling the paddles to fill the lock, Michael and Grace both became aware of something amiss in front of them, shouting, figures running:
‘Stay ’ere, keep an eye, Gracie!’ Michael ran ahead to see what was wrong; as he reached the other boats, Vi grabbed him by the shoulders, stopped him:
‘What’s oop, Mrs Hanney?’
‘Oh, Moikey! It’s Jack – ’e’s gone in the lock!’
‘What happened?’ She shook her head in disbelief:
‘’E was follerin’ Stevie, loike always – they went ter cross the gates, ’n ’e slipped. Bill ’n Billy are oop there wi’ the keeper, troyin’ ter fish ’im out!’ As she spoke, her eldest son ran to her; she turned, and he flung himself into her arms:
‘’e’s gone, Ma, ’e’s gone!’ She held him as he sobbed into her shoulder:
‘Got ’im out, ’ave they?’ The boy just nodded.
‘Look after Billy fer me, will yeh, Moikey?’ She eased out of his embrace; Michael put his arm around the older boy’s waist as she hurried away to where her husband and the lock-keeper were bent over a still form, laying on the ground beside the top gates. He eased the teenager around, made him sit on the boat’s gunwale, holding him all the time; Gracie came running up, sat the other side of him, slipping her arm about his shoulders:
‘What is it, Moikey?’ He looked at her, unsure what to say; then, seeing no option, blurted it out:
‘Jack – he’s fallen in!’ Her dark eyes held his gaze; she read the truth in his face:
‘’E’s dead, ent ’e?’ Michael could only nod as tears sprang to his eyes; he saw their brightness gather in hers, and then she bent to her brother, murmuring inaudible words of comfort. Michael left them, went up to where the adults were gathered around the child’s still figure; as he approached, the lock-keeper got to his feet, shaking his head:
‘It’s no good, Bill – I’m afraid ’e’s gone.’ Vi gave a huge sob, turned to her husband and drew him into her arms; Stevie, standing to one side, a horrified, bewildered look on his face, desperate for comfort, ran to Michael and flung himself upon him. Michael put his arms around the other boy, aware of the trembling of his body, his heaving breath as he cried for his little brother, feeling worse than useless, wishing
there was something he could say to ease Stevie’s pain. From the corner of his eye, he saw the lock-keeper go to his cottage, to telephone the authorities.
* * *
They were tied there for two days, the boats dragged above the locks, waiting while the police and the coroner’s office put in their appearances, gave their agreement for the boy’s body to be taken for burial. The lock-keeper had called around, found a suitable coffin; when they left, it was carried with honour, tied to a top-plank laid from beam to beam, just above the empty hold. Two pairs had been sent, post-haste, to take over their trip, the families commiserating in the Hanneys’ grief, and bringing the news that the boats they had passed at the Cape had also suffered disaster – they had been tied in the New Warwick Wharf, at Fazeley Street in Birmingham, the previous night, when a stray bomb had hit it, destroying the roof and sinking both them and another pair:
‘No-one was ’urt, thank God! Vi’let ’n Dolly Beechey were in the Robin’s cabin, boot they got out before it sank!’
During that time, Michael found himself with an unshakeable shadow. Stevie attached himself to the boy who had once been his eager pupil, stuck with him everywhere – Michael didn’t mind, after all, it was a long time since he’d had the company of another youngster, except for the occasions when they’d been tied up briefly, loading, unloading, or waiting for orders. Not that either of them felt much like playing – rather, they would wander together in the autumn countryside, or sit on the boats, in the empty holds or the cabin, talking infrequently, finding solace in each others presence, sharing their unspoken emptiness at the absence of the youngest of their clan.
Jack’s funeral was a simple, moving affair – Ben Vickers had made all the arrangements before the boats returned. Michael found himself included as part of the family, caught up in their sorrow, but pleased to be able to make his own farewell to the boy he’d come to think of as his little brother. Dressed in his smartest clothes, hand in hand with Stevie, he followed the small coffin up the hill from the canal to Braunston’s elegant church, stood with bowed head through the interment, and returned to the Old Plough with a crowd made up of all the boaters whose movements allowed them to be there, to celebrate the youngster’s short life.
A Boy Off the Bank Page 11