A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  ‘Shall we wait ’ere for more news?’ But Albert shook his head:

  ‘Noo, boy. We’ve still got a job ter do! Let’s ’ave that coopa, to get oover the shock – then we’d best be getting’ on.’

  But even the twelve-year-old knew that their words had to be no more than bravado, that the chances of Alex coming home were so remote as to be discounted. At the same time as he admired the boatman’s stoical attitude, he felt his sorrow, his hopelessness, and fought to hold back his own tears, knowing that if he gave in to them, it would shatter that fragile illusion of hope that they all needed. Then a thought occurred to him; he got up, excusing himself, and hurried to the dock office as Albert had done earlier. He knocked at the door, entered nervously at Vickers’ invitation:

  ‘Mr Vickers?’ The man looked up from his desk:

  ‘Mikey! How’s Mr Baker?’

  ‘Gracie’s making him some tea. He seems okay, but…’ Vickers nodded, his eyes reflecting his sympathy for his old friend:

  ‘What is it, lad?’

  ‘Well… Alex was on a big ship, a battle-cruiser, I think he said, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes – that’s right, I think?’

  ‘Has there been anything, in the news lately, about a big ship like that getting sunk?’ Vickers stared at him for a moment:

  ‘Oh, my God! Yes… It was all over the papers, last week! The Hood… HMS Hood – she was hit by the Bismarck, blown apart… You think Alex was on her?’

  ‘Well – it would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘He never told you the name of his ship?’ Michael shook his head:

  ‘Were there… any survivors?’ Vickers stared at him in horror:

  ‘Three or four, I think. No more.’ Michael bit his lip, nodded:

  ‘I see. Thank you, Mr Vickers. I’d better be getting back.’ The man watched him go, struck by his proud, upright carriage, aware that he was nonetheless on the verge of tears.

  They stopped that night at the bottom of Buckby Locks. The journey had been done under a cloud of despondency which was at odds with the bright, clear Spring evening; no-one referred to the news they’d received, but it was uppermost in all their minds. They’d eaten, as so often, on the move, the meal which Gracie had begun to prepare before they reached Braunston simmering on the range as they worked up the locks, and finally served once they emerged from the tunnel, on the half-hour pound to the top of Buckby flight.

  As they cleared the bottom lock, Gracie felt a surge of excitement despite the hollow feeling in her heart – a Grand Union pair, Bognor and Bodmin, were tied near the lock, facing North. Joey was here!

  They had to go a number of boat lengths down before there was room to tie. The pair secured, she turned to Albert:

  ‘We goin’ oop the Cow fer a drink, Ooncle Alby?’ The pub by bottom lock was the rather-inappropriately named Spotted Cow; he shook his head:

  ‘Not me, Gracie, Oi don’t feel in the mood. Boot yew’d better go – Oi see ’Enry Caplin’s boats back ther’!’ She studied him, her eyes full of concern for him:

  ‘Yew h’okay, Ooncle Alby?’ He gave her a thin smile:

  ‘Oi’m foine, girl! Git on ’n see yer man – say ’ello ter ’Enry ’n Suey fer me, if they’re there, roight?’

  ‘Oi will. Oi’ll see you later – yew coomin’, Moikey?’ The boy shook his head:

  ‘No – I’ll stay ’ere wi’ Mr Baker.’

  Talk in the bar was of the war, the job, and that boater’s gossip which serves as a towpath telegraph, conveying news around the system faster than the telephone can achieve. Someone had already brought the news of Alex to the assembled clans; Gracie could add nothing to what they had heard. She sat in a corner, arm in arm with Joey Caplin; after a while, they got up and strolled out into the gathering night, walked up to the lock and sat on the balance beam. Plucking up his courage, Joey slipped an arm round her waist:

  ‘So are yeh gooin’ ter marry me then, Gracie?’ The darkness hid her blush, as she averted her face:

  ‘Yew want me to, Joe?’

  ‘Yeh know Oi do! Yeh’re seventeen now; Oi’m near Nointeen – what about it? Yeh do loove me, don’t yer?’

  ‘Of course Oi do! ’N of course Oi’m goin’ ter marry yeh – boot not yet, Joey.’

  ‘’Course not – Oi’ll ‘ave ter talk teh yer Dad about it, won’t Oi? ’N yer Ma. ’Ow about nex’ year, soometoime? Yeh’ll be eighteen then.’ She lifted her head, gazed into his eyes:

  ‘Yes – oh yes, Joe!’ He smiled down at her, bent to kiss her cheek:

  ‘H’okay, then! S’long as yer Dad’s all roight about it, Oi’ll ’ave a word wi’ the coomp’ny, or get moy Dad teh, ’n see if we can ’ave our own boats. That’ll be grand, woon’t it?’ She hesitated:

  ‘It will, boot… what about Ooncle Alby, Joe? Yeh’ve ’eard about Alex – it’d joost leave ’im wi’ Moikey…’

  ‘The two o’ them could manage, couldn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, boot… Fellers’s loike ter ’ave crews o’ three on a pair, Joe.’

  ‘Then can’t they foind ’im soomeoone? Oi want yeh wi’ me, Gracie!’

  ‘Mebbe… Boot it’s ’ardly the toime teh tell ’im now, is it? Can we keep it secret, fer a whoile, Joe?’

  ‘Oi ’spose so, Gracie – boot not too long, h’okay? Oi want ter know ’ow Oi stand wi’ yer folks.’

  ‘Oh, yeh’ll be all roight there, Joe!’

  On the boats, silence reigned in the motor’s cabin. Michael, sat on the stool, his elbows propped on the lowered table-cupboard, was feeling totally inadequate, wishing there was something he could do, something he could say, to soften his captain’s suffering. In fact, his own heart was heavy, his thoughts on the cheerful young man who’d accompanied them for those few short days back in the Winter, whose presence had done so much to help them all over the loss of little Jack. He desperately wanted to somehow comfort Mr Baker, but the secret knowledge he’d gained from his words with Ben Vickers would make a hypocrite of him if he tried too hard to reassure the man of his son’s safety.

  In the end, it was Albert Baker who broke the silence. He was hunched on the sidebed, the pipe which had long ago gone out clamped, forgotten, in his teeth, until he took it out:

  ‘’E’s dead, Moikey.’ The boy sat gazing at his hands, clasped before him on the table; he couldn’t raise his eyes, face the man’s sorrow, couldn’t reply.

  ‘Ther’s no use pretendin’ – ’e’s’ gone, boy, ’e ent coomin’ back.’ Now, Michael looked up into the dark grey eyes, full of nothing but emptiness:

  ‘But, you said, before…?’

  ‘Oi know what Oi said. Boot – Oi didn’t want yew ’n Gracie gettin’ more oopset than yeh ’ad ter be.’

  ‘But… you could ’ave been roight! Per’aps ’e is in a lifeboat, somewhere, per’aps they will still find ’im!’ But Albert shook his head, and Michael saw the knowledge, the certainty, in his eyes:

  ‘Do you… do you know what ship he was on?’ He asked, carefully; Albert nodded:

  ‘’E tole me, joost before ’e went fer ’is train, in Birnigum. Soo proud, ’e was! Best ship in the ’ole Navy, the ’Ood, ’e said it was.’

  ‘And… you know what’s happened to it?’ Albert just nodded.

  Words had no more value for them. Michael got up, moved to sit next to the boatman, put one hand over his where they lay in his lap, the cold pipe clasped between them. After a minute or so, Albert slipped one of them free, slid his arm around the boy’s slim waist; unable to contain himself any longer, Michael turned his face into the man’s shoulder, began to cry into his shirt, feeling the stiff, upright pride that kept the old boatman dry-eyed through the depth of his sorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  That trip was carried on in a mood of silent determination. Noone spoke more than they had to, but they set about doing the job with a dogged eagerness, knowing that, in their own small way, they were contributing to the war effort. Gracie’s joy at Joey’s
proposal was more than tempered by her sorrow for her uncle; she had told him, quietly, of her news without telling him when they intended to marry, received his rather distracted blessing. She had told Michael as well; the boy had hugged her tightly and told her how happy he was, although, quietly, he was wondering what this portended for his own future. Albert, never a great talker, had sunk into a deep, silent mood, his eyes clouded, the humour which would normally surface at unexpected moments vanished as if it had never been.

  In the evenings, he would most often stay on the boats, sitting slumped in a corner of the cabin, his hands clasped around a mug of tea which had usually gone cold before he remembered to drink it. If he did venture to the pub, wherever they happened to be tied, he would sit in similar fashion in a corner of the bar, his pint mug similarly forgotten in his hands.

  Their back-load, this time, took them directly back to Birmingham – bagged sugar, for the Fazeley Street warehouse – and so via Braunston. They flew down the flight, their rhythm as slick and efficient as ever despite the fact that, after two years of war with no money spent on maintenance, some of the gates and paddle-gear were becoming worn and leaky. Out of bottom lock, along past the reservoir, under Butcher’s Bridge, and so to the Stop House…

  It had been their habit, as long as Michael had been with them, to call in there and check if there was any mail. This time, habit was so strong that it didn’t occur to him to vary that routine; he swung the motor in towards the bank in the first clear spot, reversing the engine to slow it down, watched as Gracie let the butty glide down his inside to tie on the bank as he snatched the motor tight against it. She gave him a strange look as she stepped off, but he gave it no mind. Albert emerged from the cabin:

  ‘Moikey?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Baker?’ The man gave him a colourless smile:

  ‘Ther’ll be noo letters now, boy.’ Michael felt his face turn red; he stammered:

  ‘I… I just thought… we should check, see if there’s… any more news?’ Albert shook his head, then said:

  ‘Go on, if yeh want, boy. Don’t be long.’

  ‘I… I won’t!’

  Kicking himself for his stupidity, Michael set off for Vickers’ office. Why hadn’t he used his brain, why hadn’t it sunk in with him that there’d be no more letters from Alex, no more reason to stop here unless Mr Vickers wanted to see them? Still cursing his insensitivity, he knocked at the door:

  ‘Come in! Michael, how are you?’ Ben Vickers looked up from his desk, an odd expression on his face.

  ‘I’m foine, Mr Vickers. I just wondered, is there any more news? I mean…’

  ‘About Alex?’ He shook his head, looking perplexed: ‘Not about him, no…’ He paused, then seemed to come to a decision: ‘Sit down, Michael.’

  The boy did as he was bid, puzzled at the dock manager’s uncharacteristic hesitancy. Vickers opened a drawer in his desk, took out an envelope, looked up at Michael:

  ‘I… This came, the day before yesterday, and I’m not sure what to do with it…’

  ‘What is it, Mr Vickers?’ The man showed him the envelope; he saw the style of the writing, the forces postmark; his eyes lifted to meet Vickers’, joy shining in them, but the man shook his head again:

  ‘It’s dated before the one telling us… what had happened. Must have been held up in the Navy’s post. Nothing’s changed, Michael.’ The boy closed his eyes – the surge of hope he’d felt, the sudden certainty that Alex had survived after all, had been so good, and for it to be so quickly dashed… He looked up at Vickers again, as he went on:

  ‘I’m not sure what I should do, Mikey. It’s addressed to Albert, of course, and I shouldn’t withhold it from him – but, I don’t want to make things any worse for him than they are, you understand? If he gets another letter from him, now, one written before… You see what I mean?’ Having himself just put his foot in it, done something to remind Albert of his lost son, Michael understood only too well. He thought for a moment, then said:

  ‘Why don’t you give it to me, Mr Vickers? I’ll keep it, try to pick a good time to give it to him, maybe when he’s getting over things a bit.’ Vickers looked unsure; but this was a sensible young lad, thoughtful and trustworthy…

  ‘Okay, Mikey, you take it. But…’

  ‘You can trust me, Mr Vickers, I don’t want him hurt any more, either.’

  ‘Oo don’t yer want ’urt, boy?’ Neither had heard the office door open, seen Albert appear there; both looked around guiltily. Michael stuck the envelope inside his shirt – too late:

  ‘What yer got ther’, Moikey?’ He considered trying to bluff it out, but decided he wouldn’t be able to do it; he pulled the letter out again, showed it to Albert:

  ‘Ah… Better coom back ter the boat, Moikey. Thank yeh, Ben – Oi’ll be boy fer a chat ’fore long.’

  It was a rather embarrassed silence that held them as they walked back to the boats. Michael was mentally kicking himself again – why hadn’t he thought that Mr Baker might come after him if he wasn’t back right away? Why hadn’t he kept his eyes open? Now, he’d insist on hearing the contents of the letter, and that could only upset him even more than he was already. He risked a glance at his companion, saw the man striding along, his eyes fixed straight ahead: I love him like he was my Dad – don’t make me hurt him any more!

  Gracie gave one look at Albert’s expression and ducked down into the butty cabin:

  ‘Oi’ll mek soom tea, shall Oi?’

  ‘Good oidea, girl – coom insoide wi’ me, Moikey.’ Albert sat down on the sidebed, by the end of the table-cupboard; Michael stood in front of the stove, nervously holding the envelope in both hands until the boatman gestured for him to sit on the step inside the doors:

  ‘Well – read it to me, Moikey.’ Michael regarded him cautiously, then carefully tore open the envelope, extracted the sheets of notepaper from within. Albert gestured impatiently for him to start:

  Dear Dad…

  The first few paragraphs were the usual mix of personal items and anecdotes of Alex’s shipboard world, the little glimpses of life on one of His Majesty’s Warships which Michael had always found so interesting, that now only made his heart ache. He glanced up at Albert as he read, saw the man sitting with his head bowed, his eyes half closed; his voice faltered, but he made himself carry on. Then, the tone of the writing changed:

  Dad: There’s something we’ve never talked about, and I think it’s time we did. When my old ship was hit by that torpedo, a lot of men died – I knew them all, some of them were my friends. I know we made it back to port okay, that time – but next time, Dad, it could be me. I don’t want to think about it any more than you do – but we’ve got to face it, Dad, it might happen. And if it does – there’s something I want you to promise me. It’s about Mikey.

  Surprised, the boy stopped speaking; Albert didn’t look up, just gestured for him to go on. Looking back down at the letter, he cleared his throat and picked up his thread:

  He’s a grand kid – and I know he thinks a lot of you, even if he doesn’t say it. You’ve given him a new life, turned him into a cracking little boater – but he’s more than that, Dad. He’s…

  His eyes a few words ahead of his mouth, Michael froze again, his mouth open in mixed shock and trepidation – How would the boatman take this? He looked up, to see Albert’s eyes on him:

  ‘Go on, son.’ He looked back down, went to read on; but then the man’s words struck him: Son? He’s never called me that…? Nervously, he started reading again:

  He’s my little brother – the brother you and Mum were never able to give me. So, if anything should happen to me, I want you to look after him, Dad, treat him like he really was my little brother. I made him promise, when we were in Birmingham together, that if I didn’t come home, he’d stay with you, look after you. So you’ve got to do the same – please, when you write back, promise me that?

  Half afraid of what the man would say, Michael raised his eyes again; Albert w
as smiling at him, although unshed tears were welling up in his eyes. He raised a hand to stop the boy saying anything:

  ‘’E’s roight, Moichael. Oi said before, any man’d be proud ter ’ave yeh fer ’is son – so if yeh can ’andle ’aving a grumpy old cuss fer a substitute Dad…’ Michael stared at him, lost for words; he dropped the letter on the sidebed, got up and went to the boatman. Albert rose to his feet, reached out to him, and he flung his arms around his neck; the man drew him down onto the seat beside him, enfolded him in his arms as his tears began to flow. Michael himself didn’t know, couldn’t tell, in his confusion, if he was crying for sorrow or joy; he felt Albert’s body trembling in his embrace, knew that, at last, the old man was crying too, crying for his dead son; and, just maybe, out of joy in his new son, too.

  Gracie found them so, when she entered with two mugs of fresh tea. Smiling, she opened the table-cupboard and put the mugs down; Albert smiled at her, gently eased Michael away:

  ‘Coom on, son. Drink yer tea, it’ll do yeh good.’ Michael turned to give Gracie a beaming smile, pick up his mug:

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ The girl looked from one to the other, saw the mixed sadness and joy on their faces; she just shook her head, and went back to the butty for her own cup.

  Looking over the rim of his mug, Michael said:

  ‘You knew, didn’t you? What he was going to say?’ Albert’s face cracked into a grin:

  ‘Didn’t tek mooch guessin’, did it?’ Half-afraid of the answer, Michael asked:

  ‘Are you… are you pleased?’ Albert drew him close again:

  ‘More’n Oi can tell yeh, Moikey. Alex’s gone – but Oi’ve still got a son Oi can be proud of.’ Michael laid his head against the man’s shoulder, feeling content, settled, at last.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The run to Birmingham was completed with a new feeling of cheerful camaraderie bolstering their sense of purpose, even if their shared sorrow was little abated. In quiet moments, Michael would remember again the happy, enthusiastic young man whose company he’d enjoyed for those brief few days, who had treated him, spoken to him, as a member of his family; his pleasure at being, now, welcomed by the old boatman as such would for ever be tempered by the emptiness of knowing that Alex would never return to be his big brother.