A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  Albert, for his part, had come back out of the shell he’d sunken into; indeed, he seemed more the robustly cheerful man he’d been before Rita’s death, his humour surfacing more frequently, catching Michael especially off guard. Gracie happily accepted the new relationship between them, delighted that her uncle seemed to be coping well with his grief, and pleased for Michael that his yearning for a new family had come to be, albeit a family with only one other member. But they seemed to be so happy with each other, that she found herself with a smile on her face whenever she watched them together.

  But the events of those days had made Michael think, also, of his own family. Seeing how hard Albert had been hit by the loss of his son made him realise how his mother must have suffered when he’d disappeared, how much he must have upset Ginny, and Andy of course, by his sudden absence.

  They unloaded at Warwick Bar, saw their cargo safely into the Fazeley Street warehouse, then headed, empty, for Wednesbury again. Waiting there already were the Acorn and Angelus; when they’d tied up in the layby, Gracie dashed off to see her family.

  Bill greeted her with a cheerful ‘’Ow do, Girl!’, knocked on the cabinside to alert his wife to their visitor. Vi stuck her head out, clambered out with a beaming smile at the sight of her daughter:

  ‘Gracie love – ’ow’s things?’

  ‘Oh, not bad, Ma. You’ve ’eard about Alex?’ Vi tutted:

  ‘Terrible business! ’Ow’s Alby tekin’ it?’

  ‘Oh, not so bad as yeh moight think! ’E ’ad a letter from ’im, writ joost before… you knoo! Alex arst ’is Dad to kind of adopt Moikey, tek ’im on as ’is son, if anythin’ ’appened, yeh knoo?

  ‘And?’ Gracie laughed:

  ‘The two of ’em are loike a pair o’ little kids – Oi think the letter give Alby the excuse ’e wanted to mek a big fuss o’ Moikey, and o’ course ’e’s’ bin lookin’ teh Alby as ’is new Dad fer ages!’

  ‘’E moost be terrible oopset, though?’

  ‘Oh ar – they both are. Boot, ’avin’ each other ’as made it easier fer both of ’em, yeh knoo?’ Vi nodded:

  ‘That’s good, love. What about yew, though?’

  ‘Oh, Oi’m foine, Ma!’ She glanced around: ‘Dad, Mum: Joey’s arst me teh marry ’im!’ Vi threw her arms around her daughter, hugged her tight; when she finally released her, Gracie turned to her father, embraced him as he asked her:

  ‘Yeh gooin’ teh, then?’

  ‘’Course Oi am, Dad!’

  ‘If that’s what yeh want, girl…’

  ‘’E’s goin’ teh talk teh yew about it, when ’e can, Dad.’

  ‘Oi should ’ope so! ’Ave yeh thought about when?’

  ‘We thought next year, mebbe?’

  ‘Hm… Oi’d say ’old off, per’aps anoother year – yeh’re only joost seventeen, Gracie. Besoides, it woon’t do teh leave Alby wi’ joost a slip of a lad fer crew; Moikey’ll be a year older, ’n mebbe we can foind them a third ’and in the meantoime. ’N we doon’t know ’ow this bloody war’s goin’ ter go, yet.’ She leant back in his embrace to look into his eyes:

  ‘Oh, Dad…!’ His love for his daughter showed in his smile:

  ‘Oi know, girl! Boot if ’e looves yeh, ’e’ll wait.’

  ‘Yes… If that’s what yeh think, Dad?’

  ‘It is, loove. Oi’ll talk teh Joey, don’t worry – we’ll be meetin’ oop wi’ them ’fore long, Oi’m sure.’

  The call came for Steerer Hanney to load; they parted with a last kiss.

  With a fresh load of shell cases, they were mopping the boats down, preparatory to setting off Southwards once more. Michael looked over the cabintop to where Albert was giving the porthole a quick polish:

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes, Moikey?’

  ‘Could we… I mean, if it’s possible…’

  ‘What is it, son?’

  ‘Would it be possible to stop in Wolverton, on the way boy? Joost fer a few minutes…’ Albert regarded him over the cabin, an understanding look in his eyes:

  ‘Oi ’spect we could do that, if yeh want, boy.’ Michael’s face broke into a smile:

  ‘Thanks, Dad!’

  * * *

  Three days later, a pair of boats were tied up by the massive blue-brick bridge which spans the London & North Western Railway as well as the Grand Union Canal, near the centre of Wolverton:

  ‘This is closer teh wher’ we used ter live, Dad.’ Albert gave his adopted son a sympathetic look:

  ‘Yeh woon’t be too long, will yeh?’

  ‘No – ’alf an hour, maybe. Oi just want teh see our old neighbour, mek sure my Mum’s okay.’ At this, the old boatman felt a sudden pang of what was close to being jealousy. He had, as Gracie had surmised, welcomed Alex’s insistence that he should take the boy as his adopted son, allow the affection he already felt for the youngster to come to the fore, and the reminder that there were others who could call on the kid’s love and respect unsettled him oddly.

  Wednesday was Janet Eastwood’s day for cleaning the kitchen. When the knock came at the front door, she ducked out of the oven, which she had been scrubbing, knocking the back of her head as she did so:

  ‘Who the blazes can that be?’ she muttered to herself, rubbing the painful spot; she hurried to open the door:

  ‘Hello, Mrs Eastwood!’

  ‘Michael! Come in – how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ He followed her into the front room: ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been back to see you – I know I promised to get in touch, with my Mum, but…’

  ‘You’ve been too busy with your new life, have you?’ He smiled, nodded:

  ‘I guess so!’ She took him by the shoulders, studied him:

  ‘Just look at you! So tall – and you look… I don’t know, so fit! This boating obviously suits you.’ He just smiled again:

  ‘Mrs Eastwood?’ She raised an enquiring eyebrow:

  ‘Did you tell my Mum, about where I am?’

  ‘You asked me not to.’

  ‘Well – I think I ought to let her know I’m okay, don’t you?’ She gave him a rather stern look:

  ‘I do, Michael! I think you should have done, a long time ago… Are you saying that you want me to let her in on your secret?’ He nodded:

  ‘Yes, please – will you?’

  ‘Of course I will! Do you want to see her?’ He averted his eyes, shook his head:

  ‘No – not yet. But – I’ve written her a letter. Will you give it to her for me?’ He withdrew an envelope from inside his shirt, held it out to her; she took it with a smile:

  ‘Of course, Michael. I’ll take a bus over there, maybe tomorrow, and make sure she gets it. Have you told her where you are?’ He nodded:

  ‘Yes – and about… my new Dad.’

  ‘Your new father?’ He grinned:

  ‘It’s all in there!’ He indicated the letter: ‘Mum’ll tell you – I’ve got to get back, he’s waiting for me with the boats. There’s an address, too, where she can write to me, if she wants to.’

  ‘I’m sure she will! I’ll be sure to pass this on as quickly as I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Eastwood. I’m sorry to be a nuisance…’

  ‘You’re not, child! I’m so happy that you’re all right – your Mum’s going to be so pleased to hear from you! She never gave up on you, you know? Even when everyone else thought you were dead, she wouldn’t have it – and now she’ll know she was right all along!’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Coom on lad, give oos a song!’

  At the beginning of the evening, Michael had somehow let it slip that he had once sung in his school choir, that he loved Christmas Carols.

  ‘Well, give ’im room ter breath, then!’

  The canalside bar of the Boat Inn was crammed to the rafters with people, boaters all. Perched in the old pews, reused here after being removed from the local church, standing in front of the open fire, squeezed into every available corner. There weren’t many o
ther kids there – only a few in their mid-teens. It was getting late – everyone was in jovial mood, even if their throats were beginning to feel the effects of too many choruses, backed by an assortment of Melodeons and Accordions. Henry Caplin had laid his banjo aside, his fingers aching; his son and Grace Hanney were squashed into a corner by the fire, looking not at all unhappy with the situation.

  Six months had seen many changes in the wider world, even if life on the cut went on much as before. The endless cycle of load, journey, unload and reload, continued under the relentless pressure of earning a living as well as that knowledge that what they did was in their own small way helping to fight the war. The long, bright days of Summer had faded through the burnished gold of Autumn; now the cold, dark Winter had them all in its grip once more, their routine a round of rising before dawn, working on through the few hours of grey daylight until long after darkness had fallen again. Thankfully, such frosts as there had been so far had not hindered them.

  Christmas brought a welcome break to this unending labour. The length from Stoke Bruerne top lock to the Blisworth tunnel was crowded with boats – Fellows, Morton & Clayton, Grand Unions, a couple of pairs of Barlows coal boats, Harvey-Taylors, L.B.Faulkners… And tomorrow, Christmas Day, most would remain where they were, their crews taking a long-deserved rest.

  Brief talk of the war, earlier in the evening, had had a new feel to it, a different, perhaps less fatalistic, tone. The conflict was now truly global in scope: In June, Hitler’s ambition had turned to the vastnesses of the Soviet Republic, taking the pressure off of the cross-channel threat and unleashing the enormous might of the Russians against the Wehrmacht, even if, for the moment, they seemed to be falling back on all fronts. And, scant weeks ago, the infamy of Pearl Harbour had pitched the wealth and resources of the USA into the fight on the side of the allies – there was talk of American forces joining in the fight against Germany, although they had what was almost their own war to handle in the Pacific.

  The atmosphere in the bar was thick with smoke; Michael got to his feet, the scratchiness in his throat also in part due to the long night’s singing. He was very tired – it had to be nearly midnight! He’d take himself off, back to the boats, to the comfort of his bed, before long, even if Gracie and his Dad decided to stay on longer. He looked around, at the sea of laughing faces, felt a surge of happiness: These are my people, my neighbours, my friends! His eyes lit on Alby Baker, repacking his battered old pipe, a proud smile on his lips as he focussed on what he was doing, his face averted, and love swelled in his heart: My Dad!

  Since that last visit to Janet Eastwood, the note he’d left for his mother, they had exchanged regular if fitful letters. His note had been brief, an apology, mainly, for the pain and suffering he’d caused her and his brother and sister by running away; her reply had been full of love and understanding, her wish to see him again unsaid but clear in her tone. He’d resisted that, knowing it would only upset them both, risk putting a strain on his relationship with his new Dad; their letters since, his sent to his Grandparents’ address in Buckingham, hers care of FMC at Braunston, had limited themselves to exchanges of news. He had been happy to hear of how Andy was getting on, how well Ginny was doing in her new school; news that his Grandma hadn’t been well in the cold weather prompted him to include a special note to her in his last letter before Christmas, together with a card he’d made himself.

  Now, tired, sleepy, but oh so happy, he took in a lungful of that heavy, smoky air, and prepared to give vent to his favourite carol, which he’d saved up for last.

  Albert glanced up as Michael drew breath, caught the boy’s eye, smiled. Oi loove yew, kid – yeh mayn’t be moine, boot Oi loove yeh all the same! At first, after Alex’s last letter, he’d worried that he was allowing his grief to take control, using the boy’s affection for him as a way of softening his anguish at his own son’s death. But he’d soon come to accept that his feelings for the kid were genuine, that he did indeed return that affection, and loved the boy’s company to the point that he couldn’t imagine not having him around. Each time Michael received a letter from his mother, the boatman felt a flutter of fear that she would press him, that he might give in and return to his roots. He’d even asked, once or twice, if Michael thought he might one day go back, only to get that shake of the head, that you must be joking! expression; and he’d felt his heart lighten with pleasure and pride in the boy who now called him ‘Dad’.

  Now he smiled up at the youngster, so tall, so proud, so straight, saw the love in his bright eyes, felt it reflect in his own.

  ‘Si-ilent night, Ho-oly night,

  All is calm, all is bright…’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dear Michael,

  I know you didn’t expect to hear from me, but your Mum has asked me to write this letter for her. She’s not very well just at the moment – I’ll tell you more about that in a minute, but first, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.

  You remember that she told you Andrew was ill? There’s no easy way for me to tell you this, Michael – I’m afraid he died yesterday. He’d got a bad chest infection, and it just got worse and worse, and then the doctor said it was pneumonia; I’m so sorry. The funeral will be in three days time, on Friday – is it possible you can get here? I know it might be a while before you get this.

  In any case, can you come and see me the next time you are passing this way? As I said, your Mum is not too well, either – she insisted on nursing Andrew herself, and she’s caught the same infection. Please don’t worry too much, the doctor says she has a much better chance of getting over it, as she is stronger in herself than he was; but they’ve taken her into the hospital in Buckingham, just to be on the safe side. She’d love to see you, Michael – if you can come to my house, I could take you over on the bus? I know it means holding up your journey, but it would mean so much to her.

  Ginny is fine; so is your Grandad, although he has his work cut out now looking after your Granny.

  Hoping to see you very soon – I’m sorry to have to give you such terrible news.

  With my love, Janet Eastwood.

  Michael had paused in his rush back to the boats, tied between the Stop House and the main road bridge; he stood stock still, disbelieving, and re-read Janet’s letter. They had maintained their regular quick stop in Braunston each time they passed, although now it was in the hope of a letter from his mother; the last had come two weeks before, bringing him the latest news, such as it was, and yes, telling him that Andy had been taken rather poorly. He had written back, posting his reply in Rickmansworth as they had passed through, on their last trip South.

  Since Christmas, their exchange of letters had continued thus, slow but steady; now, with Easter not long past, the sudden, awful news set him back on his heels. Now, he read the letter a third time, then looked at the date at the top – four days ago! Yes, if he thought about it, today should be Friday; it wasn’t always easy to keep track of the days of the week when you worked all days the same as the rest. He’d not make the funeral, a thought which made him even more dejected – but they could stop in Wolverton tomorrow…

  Back at the boats, Gracie handed him a cup of hot tea before noticing the expression on his face; she looked closer at him:

  ‘What is it, Moikey?’ He drew a deep breath and told them; Albert reached out to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder:

  ‘We’ll stop ther’ tomorrer, Moikey, in the mornin’. You go ’n see yer Mum, tek all the toime yeh need, h’okay?’ He swallowed, holding back his feelings, and nodded:

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I think now, I ought to go, don’t you?’

  ‘’Course yeh moost, son. It’ll do ’er a power o’ good teh see yeh, Oi’m sure.’ He just nodded again; then asked, tentatively:

  ‘Would you… come with me? I’d love her to meet you.’ Albert hesitated, surprised and unsure whether it would be wise; but then he gave in to the appeal in the boy’s eyes:

  ‘If yeh’re s
ure yeh want me along wi’ yeh?’

  ‘Please, Dad?’ It was Albert’s turn to nod:

  ‘All roight, if that’s what yeh want, boy.’

  The bus ride had been rough, the ancient Albion jouncing along as if its suspension had long given up the struggle. They made their way into the hospital, followed Janet to the ward where Nettie was lying, dozing, in her bed. She went ahead, gently roused her:

  ‘Hello, dear – how are you feeling today?’ Nettie pushed herself weakly upright, gave her a wan smile:

  ‘Oh, not too bad – thank you for coming again, Jan.’ Her voice was thin, husky; Janet smiled down at her:

  ‘I’ve brought some other visitors for you!’

  ‘Oh? Who’s here?’ Nettie looked around, caught sight of the two standing by the door; her jaw dropped in amazed delight: ‘Michael! Oh, Michael…’ Tears rose in her eyes; Michael felt his own spill down his cheeks:

  ‘Mum!’ He dashed across the room, bent to take her in his arms as she reached for him. They embraced, held each other for a minute or more, both crying with the joy of being together again, until she pushed him away:

  ‘Stand up, Michael, let me look at you! You’re so tall, so strong – so handsome! Oh, it’s so good to see you!’ He wiped the tears from his face:

  ‘You too, Mum – I’m sorry I haven’t come before…’ She smiled again:

  ‘I know! Too busy with your new life to come and see your old Mum!’ She broke off with a fit of coughing, waved away the concern that manifested itself on his face:

  ‘It’s okay, Michael, I’ve just got a bit of a bad chest. It’ll blow over.’ He looked over his shoulder, beckoned Albert forward:

  ‘Mum? I want you to meet… Mr Baker.’ He’d nearly introduced him as ‘Dad’, but thought that would sound too silly. Nettie smiled up at the boatman, held out a hand; Albert took it gently: