A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  Christmas of 1942 found a number of pairs of boats tied up around Old Turn Junction, in the centre of Birmingham, their crews collected cheerily in the Prince of Wales. Among them were the Hanneys, and Albert’s motley foursome, both pairs just loaded with steel tubes direct from Coombeswood Mill. Ginny, especially, loved it when they were directed to travel through Birmingham – she had that little girl’s common fascination with horses, and many were still used then on the short-haul dayboats around the canals of the city. She would watch them go by, plodding stolidly, with a deep-loaded boat in tow, led by one of the crew, often a young lad; the boats themselves, with their simple squared-off lines, usually lacking any form of cabin, carrying their multifarious cargoes from colliery to foundry, from factory to railway basin.

  The towpath telegraph had quickly informed the whole of the boating community on the Southern canal system that she had followed her brother away from her home and into Albert’s crew, making her something of a five-minute wonder earlier in the year. The same doubters who had questioned his abilities had shaken their heads, muttered that she would never cope with the work, never take to the life of a boater, not a little girl off the bank… But she’d proved them wrong, once again. With a surfeit of fresh air and exercise, she had begun to blossom – after six months, she was taller, fitter; her physique had filled out despite their restricted diet; her gold-blond hair had bleached further in the sun, her blue eyes had a new, happy sparkle.

  Shortages, food rationing, had limited their diet, as it had for the rest of the population. Left out of the government’s considerations, the itinerant community of the boaters had had to be issued with emergency ration cards, and would survive on them throughout the war. Ben Vickers had stepped in to support Albert’s claim for such cards for Michael, and then for Ginny, confirming that they were his ‘nephew’ and ‘niece’ to the suspicious authorities. And, like all the boaters, they would frequently be able to supplement their supplies: Carrying foodstuffs, cases would often be broken in loading, when a free-for-all was declared, everyone on hand grabbing as much as they could – excess, gained in this way, could be exchanged for coal off of other boats, to keep the range burning. And most boatmen, tied in country areas, would set the odd trap at night, collecting the unfortunate rabbits before setting away in the morning. So, all in all, they didn’t eat too badly, the stew-pot living almost permanently on the top of the stove, under Gracie’s loving care.

  Christmas Day had been passed in relaxed and enjoyable fashion, the gathered boaters sharing their joy in the holiday like one big family. The evening was getting late; Michael was out by the boats, talking and fooling with a few of the teenage kids from the other families, while Albert was sitting in the public bar, nursing a half-drunk pint of mild, chatting with his own contemporaries and watching Ginny playing in another corner of the big room with a couple of girls her own age.

  The other two children were gathered up by their mothers, taken off to their boats and their beds; Ginny wandered over to where Albert was sitting. He looked up with a smile, saw the happy tiredness in her face. Edging along on the bench to make room for her, he patted the bare wood for her to sit with him; but, her smile echoing his own, she sat instead on his lap, twined her arms around his neck, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before laying her head on his shoulder.

  Ten minutes later, coming in from the cold, Michael found her there, sound asleep in the old boatman’s arms.

  Early the next morning, with dawn yet to lighten the city’s skies, the boats were beginning to disperse to their various destinations. Albert stood on the bank, the Sycamore’s Bolinder idling beside him, as Bill Hanney walked up to him:

  ‘Word is they han’t finished the stoppage on Knowle.’ A stray bomb had landed by the second lock in the flight of five, on their Southward route out of the city, close enough to damage one of the paddle culverts and knock the top gates out of their quoins.

  ‘Will they be doon boy the toime we get ther’, yeh reckon?’

  ‘Dunno, Alby.’

  ‘Shall oos go top road, then, go round it?’

  ‘Hnn…’ Bill’s grunt sounded doubtful: ‘It’s getting’ ter be slow goin’ on the Stratford cut. Bottom’s too near the top a lot o’ the way – and soom o’ the lockgates ’ave about ’ad it, down Lapworth. ’N the Fazeley cut’s not mooch better – bottom road’s too slow, any’ow. Oi reckon we’d best go fer it, ’n ’ope they’re doon before we get ther’.’

  ‘H’okay, Bill. Bloody cut’s gettin’ bad in lot’s o’ places, ent it?’

  ‘Yeah, Alby. Be grateful we ent working the H’Oxford cut!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. We were at Sutton’s, a whoile back, ’n Oi got chattin’ wi’ Joe Skinner. ’E says it’s ruddy awful down ther’, ’n the towpath’s in a state, ’n all. Reckon’s their mule’s been in more’n once lately, missin’ ’er footin’ ’cause it’s getting’ so bad.’

  ‘She’s h’okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Joost cloimbs out, shakes ’erself off, ’n carries on. Joe reckons mules are better’n ’orses, fer a single boat any’ow.’

  ‘Oi’d rather ’ave me injun, Bill!’

  ‘Me too. Wouldn’t want ter go back to an ’orse, now!’

  They passed the locks at Knowle with only a slight delay. The canal company’s maintenance men kept a concerned watch on the damaged gates as they and several other pairs passed through, then set back to work, strengthening them as best they could.

  * * *

  And so began another year. Three years on the boats, now approaching his fourteenth birthday, Michael had to concentrate now to recall his life before the night when it had all got too much for him, when he had run out of the house in distress and set off the train of events which had led him to this new world. After being the source of fascination and speculation for a while, he was now an accepted and welcomed member of the canal community, respected for his abilities and enthusiasm; Ginny, too, was regarded now as little if any different from other boat-children her age, even if her limited schooling, her ability to read, set her apart, made her sometimes sought out by other youngsters who might ask her to read a paper or comic out to them.

  And the work went on. Unremitting, unrelenting, day by day, loading, clothing up, mopping down, then the journey to their appointed destination, unloading, waiting at the stop for their next orders, then into the cycle once more. Through the Winter, struggling to keep your footing in snow and ice as you lean on a heavy gate or bowhaul the butty up a flight of single locks, sheltering as best you can in the hatches of a boat from the driving, freezing rain, hanging your steaming coats around the engine at night in the hope that they will be dry by morning. But the Spring came at last; brighter mornings, longer evenings, sunshine and showers, and the relaxed pleasure of cruising a long pound with the birds singing in the hedgerows.

  With brightening weather came brightening news. Hitler’s armies in Russia had been defeated, wiped out, at Stalingrad; now, the Soviet steamroller had begun its slow but inexorable push Westwards. In North Africa, allied landings in Algeria had formed the second arm of a pincer which was squeezing Rommel’s forces towards their ultimate collapse; and new technology, new tactics, were beginning the rout of the U-boats, taking the pressure off from the Atlantic and Arctic convoys.

  And with the Spring, a growing feeling of anticipation, especially for Gracie, as her wedding drew ever closer.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Harriet Caplin sat on the roof of the butty cabin in the summer sunshine, keeping an eye, as her mother had instructed, on her younger brothers as they played happily with a few other children on the grass near the Greyhound, the pub at Hawkesbury Junction. The point where the Coventry and Oxford canals meet, forever known to boaters as Sutton’s Stop after a Victorian incumbent of the toll-house, was where boats awaiting orders to load at the Warwickshire collieries would tie; but now, her boats were there for what she felt were more important reasons.

  Sh
e had been looking forward with increasing excitement to her big brother’s marriage to Grace Hanney – now, the day had arrived. She turned her head to look across the canal to where the two pairs of red and green boats were tied; FMC didn’t often handle coal, and so it was unusual to see the Joshers, with their elegant fore-ends and bright colours, moored here. The adults from them, like her own parents, had gone on the bus into Coventry, to the register office for the wedding itself; only Billy Hanney stood in the hatches of the Acorn, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette. Like herself, he was already dressed in his smartest clothes, ready for the party which would start as soon as the newly-weds and their escort returned. Stocky, well-built, like his father, she thought he cut an attractive figure as he leant nonchalantly on the slide.

  But that thought made her turn her eyes to the other FMC motor, the Sycamore. Over the cabin, she could see two lads, around her own age, standing and talking. One, with the typical build and colouring of the boaters, she knew to be Grace’s younger brother; but it was the other who drew her gaze.

  She could still remember the tale as it had spread around the system, of this strange boy who had run away from his home on the bank to become a boater. She had met him, of course, a number of times, even spoken to him when they had been tied at the same wharf once or twice. And now, so it was said, he’d been joined by his little sister – she glanced again at the playing children outside the pub; that was her, the slim girl with the bright blond hair. Her eyes returned to the tall, handsome boy by the boat; she heard his laughter, as Stevie Hanney cracked some kind of joke. He leant back against the cabinside, resting one elbow on the roof; looking around, he caught her eye, gave her a wave and a quick smile. She waved back, suddenly shy, feeling that the smile on her own face probably looked stupid and awkward.

  The boy with the straw-coloured hair said something to his companion, pushing himself upright again. The two of them walked slowly towards the junction and its elegant iron bridge, past the traffic office; they crossed over the bridge, then strolled round, past the pub and the group of younger children, to where she sat:

  ‘’Ello, ’Arriet!’

  ‘H-hello, Moikey.’ She heard the breathless stutter in her voice, coloured at her own silliness: ‘’Ello, Stevie.’ She greeted the younger Hanney, trying to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘Yew h’okay?’ He asked.

  ‘Oi’m foine!’

  ‘They’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Oi ’spect so.’ A slightly awkward silence fell for a moment, before Michael asked her:

  ‘Waitin’ fer orders, are yeh?’

  ‘Yeah – we’re empty.’ She gestured at the boats, cursed herself for stating the obvious. But he just smiled:

  ‘We’ve got a load of tinned meat – goin’ ter Fazeley Street. Boot it’ll be a day late, this trip!’ She smiled back, grateful for the casual way he tried to put her at her ease.

  ‘Yeah – it’s goin’ teh be a good evenin’, ent it?’ Stevie put in.

  ‘Should be!’ Michael agreed.

  ‘Yew goin’ bottom road, then?’ Harriet asked; Michael nodded:

  ‘Yeah – we wouldn’t, o’ course, boot we ’ad teh be ’ere today, din’t we? ’N ther’d be no sense goin’ back ter Braunston.’

  ‘’Course!’ She glanced around, nervously seeking for a subject of conversation:

  ‘Did yeh see that pair over ther’?’ She pointed, as the boys looked around:

  ‘The Grand Unions, along from our’n?’ Stevie asked.

  ‘Yeah. They’re roon by a crew o’ them trainees!’

  ‘Trainees? Oo’re they then?’ Michael put a hand on his friend’s shoulder:

  ‘Oi read about them in the paper, a whoile ago. They’re women, off the bank, that’re learnin’ to run boats, aren’t they?’ Harriet nodded:

  ‘S’roight, Moikey. Ther’s three of ’em on that pair – Oone of ’em went off ter the shops a whoile ago, arst me fer the way. Talked ever so posh – boot she seemed noice, fer all that.’

  ‘Are you talking about me, by any chance?’ The three of them spun around, to see a young woman clad in dungarees, wheeling an old bicycle up behind them.

  ‘Oh! Sorry, miss – din’t mean no ’arm!’ The woman laughed:

  ‘It’s quite all right, we’re used to it! I’m Mary – thank you for the directions; I’ve got all the things we needed, now.’ Harriet gave her a tentative smile:

  ‘Tha’s good. Oi’m ’Arriet Caplin – this is Moikey Baker, ’n Stevie Hanney.’ They shook her hand in turn, as Harriet went on: ‘’Is sister’s marryin’ moy big brother – they’re down the register h’office roight now.’

  ‘Yeah! Big party, when they get back ’ere!’ Stevie added.

  ‘Oh – that’s great! Give them our good wishes, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeh could coom along fer a drink wi’ oos, if yeh loike? Oi’m sure nobody’d moind.’ Michael offered; the woman smiled:

  ‘We’d love to – but we’re expecting to go and load any time.’ As if to confirm her words, a shout echoed across the canal:

  ‘Mary! Come on, we’ve got orders to load at Griff right away!’ Mary gave the youngsters a rueful smile:

  ‘See what I mean? I’d better go – maybe we’ll meet again soon. And do wish the happy couple well for us, won’t you?’

  ‘We will – good loock!’ Michael promised; Mary looked back and waved as she trundled her bike over the bridge.

  ‘’Ere they coom!’ Stevie pointed, and they saw the wedding party heading up the lane from the bus stop.

  It was, indeed, a good day. They were joined by all the other boaters who were tied there; the ale and stout flowed freely in the Greyhound, and the children enjoyed a rare day of freedom, playing in the sunshine outside. Before the pub closed for the afternoon, a number of water cans were filled with beer, so that the partying could go on until the evening opening.

  It was later, with most of the adults either dancing or clapping along with the rhythm while Henry Caplin and a couple of other boaters made the music, when Harriet looked around to find Michael beside her. Without a word, he took her hand and led her to join in the step-dance, both of them watching their elders to see how it was done. They danced for a while, through three or four tunes; then Michael led her out of the melee to an empty seat. He handed her down into it; she hotched along to make room, and he squeezed in beside her:

  ‘Thanks – Oi’m about worn out!’ She echoed his smile:

  ‘Me too, Moikey. Thank yeh fer dancin’ wi’ me…’ His smile widened:

  ‘Moy pleasure, ’Arriet!’

  The silence which fell between them now was easy, friendly. She looked up into his face, studied his profile as he watched the other dancers:

  ‘Moikey?’ His eyes turned to meet hers, and she thought again how lovely they were, felt her shyness come sweeping back. She averted her gaze, looking at her hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘What is it, ’Arriet?’ She looked up again:

  ‘I joost wondered – yew use’ter live on the bank, din’t yeh?’

  ‘Long toime ago, that was!’

  ‘Whoy did yeh want to be a boater?’ He laughed:

  ‘Oi din’t! It joost koind o’ happened…’

  He generally didn’t talk about his life before the boats; but now, seeing the real interest in her eyes, he found himself telling her about his miserable existence in Wolverton – before long, she knew the whole story. Bill Hanney, bringing them fresh drinks, commented:

  ‘Yew two’ve bin thick as thieves ’ere all noight, ’aven’t yeh?’

  ‘We’re joost talkin’, Mr ’Anney.’ Michael replied; Bill laughed, spoke to Harriet:

  ‘Yeh’ll ’ave ter marry ’im, now yeh know all ’is secrets!’ She laughed, but felt the colour rising to her face, saw Michael looking down at her from the corner of her eye, and took a sip of her drink to hide her embarrassment. Michael asked her:

  ‘’Ow old are yeh, ’Arriet?’

  ‘Th-thir
teen, Moikey.’ He looked up at Bill:

  ‘We’ll ’ave the wait a bit, then!’ Bill laughed again:

  ‘Aye! Tek yer toime, both o’ yeh, ther’s no ’urry!’ He left them, to go back to join Vi. Harriet looked up again, to find Michael looking down at her:

  ‘Doon’t moind Bill, ’e’s only pullin’ yer leg!’

  ‘Oi know, Moikey. It’s gettin’ late – Oi should be getting’ ’ome. Ma’ll ’ave the young ’uns in bed boy now, ’n Oi’m ’sposed ter be lookin’ after ’em.’

  ‘Okay, ’Arriet.’ He stood up, took her arm to help her to her feet, and she smiled her thanks to him. He followed her as she left the pub, walked with her the few yards to their boats:

  ‘Goodnoight, ’Arriet.’

  ‘Goodnoight, Moikey – thank yeh fer a noice evenin’.’

  ‘Oi’ll see yeh agen, soon?’

  ‘Oi ’spect so…’

  ‘Goodnoight, then…’ He bent to give her a quick kiss on the cheek; she stood, rigid with pleased astonishment, as he turned and disappeared back into the pub.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Their two pairs were travelling butty again that trip – Acorn and Angelus, four-handed, leading, and Sycamore and Antrim, reduced now to three crew, behind. The newly-weds had spent their first night together in the cabin of Henry Caplin’s motor boat – Joe’s parents and his younger siblings all squeezed into the butty; except for Harriet, the only girl, who had shared with Ginny in the Antrim to give them a little more room. Now, Grace and Joe were on the train headed for Bull’s Bridge depot, where the Grand Union company had a pair waiting for them; Joe’s younger brother, Ernie, was going with them to make up a crew of three, leaving Harriet and little Sam with their parents. Harriet had returned to her own boats after a poor night – she had found it difficult to get to sleep for the thought of the tall, handsome boy in the cabin next door.