A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  And the next day, they were on their way again, sent back to Birmingham for a fresh load:

  ‘Loife ’as ter go on, Moikey. The job’s still got ter be doon – we’ve said goodbye teh ’im, ’n now we owe it ter ’im as mooch as ter ourselves teh git on wi’ things.’

  ‘Can Oi go wi’ Ooncle Alby, Dad? Joost fer a day or two?’ Stevie asked as they prepared to turn the boats and depart. Bill looked around, surprised, caught the pleading look in his son’s eye:

  ‘What d’yeh say, Alby? We’ll be goin’ tergether, any road – can ’e ride wi’ yew?’

  ‘Oi don’t see whoy not – Yeh’ll ’ave ter sleep on yer own boat, boy, not ter oopset the arrangements, though?’

  ‘H’okay, Ooncle Alby.’

  ‘Coom on, then! Let’s be gettin’ on wi’ it!’ The two men exchanged glances which said that they both knew the boy really wanted the comfort of Michael’s company, rather than his uncle.

  The two empty pairs ran quickly, back along the Oxford Canal length to Wigrams, then on the Northern Grand Union, down Stockton and into the Avon valley. Bascote locks were worked in a solemn, fragile silence; then on down to the bottom level, on to the long pound from Radford which would lead them to the beginning of the uphill work at the Cape.

  The locks done for the time being, Michael and Stevie sat side by side, huddled in their coats against the chill of the dull grey day, on the back-end planks, their backs against the front wall of the engine-hole. Neither spoke; the Bolinder’s steady beat drew them into the outskirts of Leamington Spa.

  ‘Yeh miss ’im, don’t yeh?’ Michael broke the long silence.

  ‘Soomat cruel, Oi do.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Another half-mile of silence:

  ‘Oi love moy Ma, ’n moy Dad. ’N Billy, o’ course.’

  ‘’Course yeh do.’

  Two hundred yards:

  ‘Boot – Oi doon’t want ter be wi’ them, not roight noo. D’yeh oonderstand?’

  ‘Not really…?’ Stevie looked at his companion for the first time since they’d sat there:

  ‘It’s moy fault, doon’t yeh see?’

  ‘How’s that, Stevie?’

  ‘’E was moy little brother – Oi should’a bin lookin’ out fer ’im!’

  ‘You couldn’ be watchin’ ’im all the time, Stevie!’

  ‘Boot Oi should ’ave bin! ’E was follerin’ me, loike ’e always did, acrorss the lock; ’n then ’e wasn’t there anymore!’ The dark eyes took on a haunted look; Michael stared at him, realising at last the boy’s torment:

  ‘Oh, Stevie – even if yeh’d been watchin’ ’im, what could yeh ’ave done?’

  ‘Oi don’t know! Boot Oi still should’a bin…’ His voice trailed off; tears welled in his eyes, ran down his cheeks, and Michael found his own grief surfacing again. He put an arm around Stevie; the younger boy turned into his embrace, and then they were crying on each other’s shoulders. Minutes passed; trying to ease his friend’s guilt and sadness, Michael told him:

  ‘You gave ’im so much, taught ’im so much, Stevie – just like you did me. I don’t know where I’d be if it wasn’t fer you.’ The heavy head lifted from his shoulder:

  ‘Yeh mean it?’

  ‘’Course I do. It’s not your fault, if you couldn’t save ’im, in the end – even if you’d bin followin’ ’im, instead o’ the other way round, yeh couldn’t ’ave done anythin’.’

  ‘Mebbe not…’

  ‘You couldn’t!’

  They sat in silence again, Michael’s arm still about his companion, until Stevie spoke up again:

  ‘Yeh’re a good boater – even moy Dad says so.’

  ‘S’all down ter you, Stevie.’ A hint of a chuckle:

  ‘Yeh’re even beginnin’ teh sound loike a boater!’

  ‘Oi am?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They loaded with steel tubes again at Coombeswood, and had an uneventful trip to London. Stevie stayed with the other boats, at least during the days, until they had unloaded; they continued to run in convoy, and he still felt happier in the company of Michael and his older sister, but once reloaded, this time with sugar bound for Birmingham’s Crescent Wharf, his father insisted that he return to his own pair in case they became separated.

  The natural rivalry of the cut re-established, Albert had managed to get in front of the Hanneys after an early start from Winkwell; but a message was awaiting him at Marsworth:

  ‘Steerer Baker? Mr Vickers says you’re to stop at Braunston and see him, on your way by!’ The junction-keeper’s voice carried across from the maintenance yard.

  ‘What fer, d’yeh know?’ The man just shook his head.

  They worked hard and fast for the rest of that day, and tied overnight in Stoke Bruerne. The Acorn and the Angelus had kept up, and the hospitality of the Boat Inn was enjoyed that night, even if Albert was still a little concerned at the import of that uninformative message. The next day, they made Braunston in the early afternoon; Bill gave them a wave as he swept past, Vi called out a cheery ‘see yeh in Birnigum!’ from the tiller of her butty. Albert made his way quickly to Vickers’ office, while Grace and Michael tied the boats up.

  ‘Come in, Alby! Everything okay?’

  ‘Foine, Ben – What did yeh want me fer?’ Vickers laughed:

  ‘I’ve got you an extra crewman, Alby! Only for a couple of days, mind – but I think he’ll come in useful.’

  ‘Oh? ’Oo’s that, then?’ He turned, as the side door of the office opened:

  ‘’Ello, Dad!’

  ‘Alex? Coom ’ere, boy!’ They embraced, slapping each other’s backs in their delight at the reunion:

  ‘What’re yeh doin’ ’ere, boy?’

  ‘Oi’ve got a few days leave, Dad. Moy ship’s in fer a refit – we got a bit knocked about on the last run, ’n they’re postin’ me to oone o’ the big ’uns!’

  ‘Oh ar? When’s that, then?’

  ‘Oi’ve got teh report on board on Froiday – so Oi’ve got three days wi’ yeh!’

  ‘Coomin’ teh Crescent Wharf wi’ oos, then?’

  ‘Yew bet! Oi’ll get a train from Birnigum!’

  ‘You’ll be wanting to get on, Mr Baker?’ Vickers queried.

  ‘Oi will that, Mr Vickers! ’N thank yeh!’

  ‘Go on, Alby – enjoy your trip, Alex!’

  The two left the office, hurried back towards the boats:

  ‘So what’s this noo boat o’ yours, Alex?’

  ‘I’d best not tell yeh ’er name, Dad, yeh know what the censors are loike! Boot she’s a big battle-cruiser, proide o’ the Navy! ’N they’re mekin’ me oop teh leadin’ torpedoman, ’n all!’

  ‘Good fer yew, boy! Gracie! Moikey! Look ’oo’s ’ere!’

  They were sat in the butty cabin, enjoying a cup of tea in the captain’s absence, when they heard his call. Both quickly climbed out:

  ‘Alex!’

  ‘Ello, Gracie – ’ow are yeh?’

  ‘Foine – it’s good ter see yeh! ’Ow about yew?’

  ‘Oi’m grand – got a few days leave, so Oi’m coomin’ teh Birnigum wi’ yeh. ’N yew moost be Moikey?’

  Michael stepped out of the well onto the bank, held out a hand to the stocky young man in the smart navy-blue, the simple legend ‘H M S’ in gold on his cap-band:

  ‘Alex? I’m pleased to meet you!’

  ‘Me too, Moikey – it’s grand teh meet yeh at last!’ They shook hands, but then the matelot put his arm around the boy, gave him a firm hug: ‘Oi’m so pleased yeh turned oop when yeh did – moy ol’ man needs someone teh keep an oiye on ’im!’

  ‘’Ave yeh seen Iris, Alex?’ Gracie asked.

  ‘Yeah! Her folks coom boy yesterday, whoile Oi was waitin’ fer yew to turn oop. She’s foine – with a bit o’ loock we’ll pass ’em again, ’cause they’re on their way ter Sherbo’n Street, ’n they’ll be on their way back as we’re goin’ oop!’ He paused: ‘Oi ’eard about Jack, Gracie – Oi’m
so sorry.’ She nodded:

  ‘Thank yeh, Alex – ’e was an aggravatin’ little beggar at toimes, but Oi do miss ’im!’

  ‘We all will – ’e was a good kid. ’Ow are yer Mum ’n Dad?’

  ‘Oh, they’re h’okay; they’re on the same roon as oos, joost gone past – yeh’ll see ’em later, Oi ’spect.’ Through this exchange, Albert had stood to one side, his expression one of undiluted pride in his son; now, he chivvied them up:

  ‘Coom on, we ’aven’t got all day ter be chatterin’! Moikey – can yew share wi’ Gracie, fer a day or two, ’n let Alex ’ave the soidebed?’

  The rest of that trip was passed in high good humour; Albert and his son were so obviously delighted to be boating together again, even if it was only for a few days, that the tragedy of Jack’s death, while by no means forgotten, could be remembered with a better degree of acceptance under the sheltering umbrella of their joy. Even Stevie, when they met up again at that night’s stop, seemed to come further out of his still-present mood of quiet gloom in the young man’s company.

  Once unloaded, and reloaded for the return Southwards, Alex left them in Birmingham, stepping off at Old Turn Junction, bag in hand, to walk to New Street Station and his train. He had spent a lot of time with Michael, talking about the boating life which they now shared, about his parents; Michael learnt a lot about Rita Baker – Albert had hardly ever mentioned his dead wife in the boy’s hearing. He, in turn, told Alex much about his own family, his life before his desperate escape from the house in Windsor Street. He felt that strange rapport with the young man, even on such a brief acquaintance, that let him open up on the subject much more than he’d wanted to with Vi, or even Gracie.

  They’d all turned to, each crew helping the other, heaving the two hundredweight sacks of sugar out of the boats’ holds onto the wharfside. Michael and Alex were sat side by side on the Antrim’s gunwales, tired, grubby, and sweaty; the sailor, his uniform carefully folded away in a drawer in the cabin for the time being, clad now in the old clothes he’d always kept for loading, smiled down at the boy. Michael returned his smile, but something that Gracie had said was running through his mind; he asked, tentatively:

  ‘Alex – when the war’s over – you’re going to get married?’

  ‘Teh Iris – that’s roight.’

  ‘Then – you’ll come back on the boats?’

  ‘O’ course – what else would Oi do?’

  ‘So there’ll be you and Iris, and your Dad?’

  ‘Yes…’ Sudden understanding lit his shaded grey eyes, the same colour as his father’s, as he realised what was troubling the boy: ‘’N you too, Moikey! Yeh’re part o’ the family, now!’

  ‘Am I? I’m not sure your Dad thinks so.’ Alex felt his new young friend’s doubts, slipped an arm around his shoulders:

  ‘’E doos, Moikey, believe me. ’E’s not the koind ter say so, mebbe – ’n Oi reckon ’e’s still missin’ moy Ma, joost loike Oi’m doin’.’ He paused, went on: ‘I want yeh ter promise me soomethin’ Moikey?’ The boy raised enquiring eyes to his:

  ‘What, Alex?’

  ‘If anythin’ ’appens ter me…’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you, Alex!’

  ‘No, boot – joost in case, roight? Oi want yer teh promise that yeh’ll stay wi’ moy Dad, look after ’im fer me, h’okay?’ Michael nodded:

  ‘Of course I would! I wouldn’t leave him, ever!’

  ‘Then Oi promise yew, yeh’ll have a place with oos, as long as yeh want it.’

  They parted the best of friends, promised to meet soon again, to talk of other things they hadn’t said.

  Heading out of Birmingham on the ‘top road’ to avoid a stoppage on Camp Hill Locks, they cruised towards Kings Norton on the Worcester and Birmingham Canal. After his son’s departure, Albert, never exactly loquacious at the best, stood silent and thoughtful at his tiller, puffing at his well-packed pipe. Michael, stood on the gunwale at the side of the cabin, held his own silence for mile after mile, until he ventured to say:

  ‘You must be really proud of Alex, Mr Baker.’

  ‘Oi am, boy. More’n Oi can tell yeh.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The cold, dark days of Winter at last gave way to a new, burgeoning Springtime. Michael had passed his first Christmas on the boats, found more joy in it than he could ever recall feeling at any previous Yuletide: They’d been tied, by chance, in Marsworth – the Red Lion had been filled to bursting with boaters on the night of Christmas Eve, and the music, the singing and dancing, had gone on until the early hours. Even in wartime, noone was working on Christmas Day, except for the odd pair carrying especially urgent cargoes.

  He woke on Christmas morning to find a few small packages waiting for him. He’d expected nothing, knowing that his new friends had little to spare for buying presents, but there was a new pullover, knitted by Vi Hanney, a traditional-style webbing belt, surreptitiously made by Gracie. And Albert Baker had two surprises for him:

  ‘Alex said ter give yeh this – ’e left it fer yeh when ’e was ’ome.’ Michael tore off the old newspaper which wrapped the gift, to find a carved wooden model of a ship, a destroyer, painted in the dark grey of the real vessel:

  ‘’E made it fer yeh, it’s ’is old ship ’e was on.’ He chuckled at the boy’s delight: ‘’E’s better with ’is ’ands than Oi am, that’s fer sure!’

  ‘It’s terrific, Mr Baker! I’ll thank him, next time we write to him!’

  ‘Aye, you do that, boy.’ He reached behind himself, under the cross-bed: ‘’N this is fer yew, too. Sorry Oi didn’t get ter wrap it oop, proper-loike.’

  A brand new windlass, Grand Union size. He’d been using one of Albert’s spare ones, all this time – but this was his own! Impulsively, he stood up and put his arms around the man’s neck, gave him a tight hug; Albert brushed him off:

  ‘Git away, boy! We thought, bein’ off the bank, yeh’d be used ter gettin’ lots o’ presents…’

  ‘They’re brilliant, Mr Baker! This is the best Christmas, ever – I’ve never had so many presents!’

  He practically leapt out of the cabin, knocked on the butty, as ever tied alongside, and threw his arms around a startled Gracie as she emerged to see what the fuss was about.

  On a wider stage, that Spring of 1941, the slugging match between the Eighth Army and the Afrika Korps continued; had the results been less tragic, the tit-for-tat bombing raids across the North Sea would have had an element of childishness about them. And, in the North Atlantic, the U-boat versus convoy war looked to take on a new dimension when the battleship Bismarck sailed from its safe haven.

  As the hours of daylight slowly lengthened, Michael found his spirits lifting. Boaters born to the life seemed to take Winter working in their stride, but he had found the long days taxing, when so much of what they needed to do had to be done in the dark. Boating after dark can be a pleasant experience, on a bright, clear night when the moon lays a track of silver on the still water; but on a dark, cold morning, two hours before sunrise, when the bitter rain is running down your neck into your shirt and the headlight only gives you a tunnel-vision view of the track ahead, it becomes a far less attractive proposition.

  For some time they had been on a kind of circular route: Foodstuffs, including cheese and sugar and tinned goods, from Brentford to Nottingham; a variety of cargoes, from Nottingham to Birmingham; and munitions of one sort or another, back to the South.

  * * *

  Ben Vickers thumbed through the day’s post in his office by the dock at Braunston, sorting company business from the odd letters destined for members of his crews. One of the latter – an official-looking envelope, addressed to Mr Albert Baker: Vickers’ heart sank – he’d seen envelopes like this one before. Not often, thank God, but he was terribly afraid that he knew the gist of the tidings it would prove to contain; he shook his head, hoping he was wrong, and put it to one side. He’d have to get a message to Alby, make sure he called in nex
t time he was past…

  Albert got the message as they were ready to leave Wednesbury with another load of machined shell cases. Mostly, messages to call in at Braunston meant something official, company matters; they would usually stop off quickly there, anyway, in the hope of a letter from Alex. His correspondence was always erratic, depending as it did on just where his ship happened to be, whether post could be relayed back to England.

  They were in Braunston two days later. As usual, Albert hurried off to the office, leaving Michael and Gracie to tie the boats; but this time, instead of rushing back with an envelope in his hand, eager for Michael to read his son’s latest missive to him, he was away for half an hour or more. And when he returned, it was with a droop to his shoulders, a shattered expression on his weatherbeaten face; Gracie went to him as he approached:

  ‘What is it, Ooncle Alby?’ Michael knew the answer, even before the boatman could get the words out; like Ben Vickers before him, he felt his heart sink into his boots:

  ‘It’s Alex – ’is ship’s bin soonk, ’n ’e’s’ missin’.’ Gracie’s expression showed her horror at this news:

  ‘Oh, no!’ She took him in her arms, held him close, shaking her head in disbelief; Michael went to him as well, put an arm around his waist:

  ‘If ’e’s’ only missin’, there’s hope that they’ll foind ’im, isn’t there?’ Albert smiled down at him:

  ‘Of course there is, Moikey. We moostn’t give oop – ’e’s probably floatin’ around soomewher’ in oone o’ them rafts. They’ll foind ’im.’

  ‘Still an awful shock, though, ent it, Ooncle Alby? Coom on, Oi’ll mek oos a coop o’ tea, ’n we’ll think what’s ter be doon, eh?’ Gracie led him down into the butty cabin, where a kettle was already singing on the range. Michael sat beside him on the sidebed: