A Boy Off the Bank

by Geoffrey Lewis

  The ‘Bottom Road’ into Birmingham is long, slow and tedious – the main reason why it was supplanted by the building of the Grand Junction route from Brentford, through Leamington Spa and Warwick. And now, after four years of war, with no money for maintenance, it was becoming even less favoured by the boatmen. They slogged their way along the Coventry Canal, past Marston Turn, down Atherstone, and then Glascote Two; left turn at Fazeley Junction, and then begins the uphill run onto the Birmingham plateau. Thirteen at Curdworth, then the short tunnel; three at Minworth, and the long pound to Salford Junction. And all narrow locks, so the butties had to be bow-hauled through.

  They tied that night, stiff, weary and footsore, just below Aston flight. Michael, having been acting horse to their butty most of the day, collapsed onto his sidebed with a tired grin when Albert suggested a quick beer in the Reservoir; Ginny had already retired, equally exhausted, to her first night alone in the Antrim. The party which trudged over the bridge and up the road consisted of Albert, Bill and Vi, and Billy – even his mother had given up calling him ‘Little Bill’ now, possibly because, at seventeen, he was an inch or two taller than his father, and several inches taller than her.

  A hale sounded from the bank:

  ‘Moikey! Yew ther’?’ Michael roused himself, stuck his head out of the slide-hatch:

  ‘Stevie – yew coomin’ in?’ Stevie Hanney stepped over the stern of the butty, and onto the motor’s counter, followed Michael as he backed down into the Sycamore’s cabin.

  ‘Yew wan’ a beer?’

  ‘Yeh got soom?’

  ‘Yeah! Dad brought a few bottles o’ pale ale back las’ noight!’

  ‘’E woon’t moind?’

  ‘Nah!’ Michael took two bottles from the table-cupboard, knocked the caps off, poured the contents into two glasses, handed one to Stevie:

  ‘Good party, wasn’ it?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Didn’ see mooch o’ yew?’ Stevie took a long pull at his glass:

  ‘Oi was outsoide wi’ Jack ’Umphries ’n Ernie ’n the oothers, most o’ the toime. Oi see yeh wi’ ’Arriet?’ Michael shrugged, trying to sound non-committal:

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Loike ’er, do yeh?’ He shrugged again:

  ‘She’s okay.’ Stevie sniggered:

  ‘She fancies yew, soomat rotten!’

  ‘Yeh think so?’

  ‘Oi know!’ Michael looked up, grinned:

  ‘Yeah, well…’

  ‘She’s pretty, ent she?’

  ‘Yeah… maybe.’

  ‘Yew goin’ ter marry ’er, then?’ Michael grabbed his hat, lying on the bed at his side, threw it at his friend; the two of them shared a companionable laugh, before Michael said:

  ‘Oi ent marryin’ anyone, not fer a long whoile yet!’

  Pleased at having successfully baited his friend, Stevie allowed the conversation to turn to thoughts of the rest of the trip, to what might follow.

  In the public bar of the Reservoir, the latter subject was also occupying their elders:

  ‘Bloody ’ard work, terday, Bill.’ They were settled in a corner, glasses nicely filled.

  ‘Yeah. Bottom Road gets worse ’n worse, doon’ it?’

  ‘Ah. Soom o’ them gates are in a state, ent they? ’N ther’s no bloody water, ’alf the toime.’

  ‘’Ard work, loike yeh say.’

  ‘Joost the Lousy ’Leven ’n Ashted six, termorrer, ’n we can go back middle road.’

  ‘Aye, thank God! If ther’s any water in the ten-moile.’ The pound above Knowle was always notorious for low water levels in the Summer.

  ‘Top road’s no bloody good, now. Lap’erth locks are in an ’Ell of a state, from what Oi ’ear.’

  ‘Ah. Mebbe the bloody war’ll be over, soon, ’n they’ll get ’em fixed.’

  ‘Yeah, mebbe. Moikey picked oop a paper th’oother day, ’n tole me the noos – ’e says we’ve landed troops in Sicily, ’n the Eyties are on the roon.’

  ‘If they give oop, ther’ll only be ’Itler ter beat, then?’

  ‘Ah – ’n the Japs, o’ course.’

  ‘Yanks’ll tek care o’ them, woon’t they?’

  ‘Wi’ a bit o’ loock, aye. Ther’ was another bit in this paper, that Moikey read out, ’bout the soobmarines.’

  ‘Oh ar?’

  ‘Yeah – they’ve got noo long-range aeroplanes, can stay oop fer hours ’n hours, ’n they’re usin’ ’em to ’unt ’em down, sink ’em. The paper said we’ve got them on the roon, too.’

  ‘Cor – mebbe we’ll see an end o’ this bloody rationin’ then, if the ships are getting’ through?’

  ‘Oi wouldn’ ’old yer breath, Bill!’

  ‘Nah, ’spose not! We’ll survoive, oone way or another!’ A companionable laugh, a swig of beer.

  ‘Moikey was h’enjoyin’ ’imself las’ noight, wasn’ ’e?’ Vi joined the conversation.

  ‘Wi’ ’Arriet Caplin, yeh mean?’ Bill added.

  ‘Joey’s sister?’ Albert asked. Vi chuckled:

  ‘S’roight! Dancin’ they was, then Oi saw ’em sittin’, talkin’ in the Grey’ound. Thick as thieves! Tellin’ ’er all about ‘ow ’e came ter leave ’ome, ’n be on the boats, from what Oi over’eard.’

  ‘’E never talks about that!’

  ‘’E was with ’er!’

  ‘Ah! Oi shall ’ave ter watch that boy, then, shall Oi?’

  ‘Oh, ther’s no ‘arm in it, Alby – they’re mooch too yoong ter be getting’ oop ter anythin’ yet. ’N they both know the score, they’re sensible kids.’

  ‘They are that.’ He hesitated: ‘Oi never said ’ow mooch Oi owe yeh, fer bringing ’im ter me, ’ave Oi?’ Vi gave a dismissive wave of her hand:

  ‘Oh, we ’ad ter do soomat with ’im!’

  ‘Oi know, boot… Oi doon’ know what Oi’d a’ doon without ’im, nor little Ginny, especially now Alex’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, Alby!’ Vi put a hand on his arm: ‘Oi’m glad it’s worked out. They’re good kids, the two o’ them.’

  ‘Oi’m loocky ter ’ave ’em, Oi know that. The best kids a feller could ’ave, even if they ent really moine. Moikey won’ use ’is old name, did yeh know? Calls ’imself Baker, now!’ The pride was clear in his tone; Vi chuckled again:

  ‘So doos she! Oi ’eard ’er interdoocin’ erself ter Lucy ’Umphries yesterday – “Oi’m Ginny Baker”, she says!’ Albert looked up, startled:

  ‘She did?’ Vi nodded, laughing:

  ‘Din’t yer know?’ He shook his head, joined her laughter, his heart lighter than ever at the news:

  ‘Two little di’monds, they are! Bes’ fam’ly a man could ’ave!’

  Four glasses were raised in their honour.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘This’ll do, Moikey!’ Michael heaved a sigh of relief as he pushed the lockgate closed. Normally, he’d have left it, but, thinking they would almost certainly be the last boats through that night, he closed up in an attempt to save water, as Albert and Ginny took the boats along to find a tying place. Across the cut, the lights of the Cape of Good Hope twinkled invitingly.

  Christmas Eve. They’d fought their way across the valley, after a stop at Braunston to pick up the post – Christmas cards from Granny and Grandad Morris, and a little parcel each for Michael and Ginny – with the wind whipping a cold, driving rain into their faces all the way. It was earlier than they would usually tie for the night, but too late to tackle the Hatton twenty-one – especially after such a miserable day. And anyway, Christmas at the Cape was an attractive prospect. They’d eaten on the level pound through Leamington Spa; Ginny was proving to have been a good student to Gracie’s teaching when it came to the cooking. So now, a quick wash and a clean shirt, and they could head for the warmth of the public bar.

  As he walked along to find his boats, Michael noticed the first pair moored above the locks – smartly turned out Grand Unions, which looked familiar. He looked again, then realised; they were a pa
ir of trainee boats, the same ones he’d first seen at Sutton’s, the day of Gracie’s wedding. They’d crossed paths a few times since, and the women on them had always waved, with a cheerful ‘How are you?’. There was a light glowing in the butty cabin; he paused, to knock on the cabinside. The sound of movement from within, and then a head appeared as the hatch slid open:

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘’Ello, miss – it’s Moikey, off the Sycamore and the Antrim.’

  ‘Oh – yes, hello. How are you?’

  ‘Foine, thanks. Yerselves?’

  ‘Oh, okay, I guess. Mary and Cissie aren’t here – they’ve gone home for a few days, for Christmas.’

  ‘Oh – ’ow about you? No foon bein’ ’ere on yer own, is it?’

  ‘No, I… I would have…’ She suddenly turned away, hiding her face from him.

  ‘Yew sure yeh’re all roight?’ She shook her head, then looked up again:

  ‘I’m fine – really.’

  ‘Would yeh loike ter coom over the Cape fer a drink with oos? We’ll be goin’ over soon as we’ve cleaned oop?’

  ‘No… I wouldn’t be good company, right now, I’m afraid.’ There was a catch in her voice; Michael thought she sounded as though she needed cheering up:

  ‘Oh, coom on! It’ll be good foon, music ’n dancin’ ’n all, yeh’ll enjoy it! Yeh doon’t want ter be all alone on Christmas!’ She looked at him, uncertainty in her face, but then shook her head again:

  ‘No, I…’ she drew a deep breath: ‘The reason I haven’t gone home… My street was hit by a doodlebug, two weeks ago. My parents, my little brother, they were all killed – I’ve got nowhere to go, you see.’ He stared at her, shocked at her tragedy:

  ‘No Aunties or Uncles? Or friends, where yeh could go?’

  ‘Yes, but… like I said, I would be awful company at the moment.’

  ‘Well, yeh can’t sit in ther’ on yer own, on Christmas Eve, it’s not roight. Get yerself toidy – Oi’ll coom for yeh in a few minutes.’ It was her turn to stare, taken aback by his sudden forcefulness; but then she smiled:

  ‘If you’re sure…’

  ‘Oi’m sure. Do yeh good, ter get out.’ Still she hesitated; but then she nodded:

  ‘All right, since you insist – I’m Sylvie.’ Michael offered his hand, and she shook it:

  ‘Oi’ll see yeh in foive minutes, then.’

  ‘Right!’

  As Michael had anticipated, it was a great evening – whenever a group of boaters are together, you can assume that the beer will flow, and the music will come out, and Christmas Eve is an even better excuse than usual for such hilarity. When Michael and Sylvie entered the bar, they found Albert just inside the doors, deep in conversation with several other boaters about the state of the war. One was just talking about the news on the wireless:

  ‘They’re sayin’ as ’ow the H’air Force is batterin’ Germany to pieces, what wi’ the Yanks goin’ boy day, ’n our boys boy noight!’

  ‘Did yew ’ear about that Dams Raid, back in the Soommer? They flattened a coople o’ big dams, flooded ’alf the coontry n’ drained soom o’ their canals!

  ‘Yeah – Oi ’ope that doon’t gi’ them any big oideas!’

  ‘Roight! Ther’s little enooff bloody water in our’n as it is!’ Albert saw the new arrivals:

  ‘Moikey – Coom on, let’s get oos a coopl’a beers, boy!’

  He introduced Sylvie, to be met with a lot of ribald comments about his new girlfriend, which she took in good part. They all squeezed in around one of the tables; as the evening progressed, she began to relax more and more, joining in the singing, banging her glass on the table to the rhythm of the tune being played.

  It was after midnight by the clock over the bar, the younger children, Ginny included, all long gone back to their beds, when she got rather unsteadily to her feet, and clapped her hands to get the assembled crowd’s attention:

  ‘Lish – listen! I’ve had quite a lot to drink, but there’s shomething – something – I want to say!’ Relative quiet descended upon the gathered boaters; she went on: ‘I thought thish – this was going to be the worst Christmas of my life – but you’ve’ she gestured around the room with her half-full glass, slopping some of its contents and making herself stagger: ‘You’ve made it one of the best ever – I jusht want to say thank you – thank you all!’ This was met with a round of applause, and some whistles and catcalls. She gazed around, spotted Michael:

  ‘Mikey – come here!’ He felt himself pushed up out of his seat, propelled towards her whether he wanted to or not. She grabbed him, put an arm around his shoulders:

  ‘And it’s all ’cause of you, Mikey! I’d be shit – sitting in my cabin, feeling shorry for myself if you hadn’t dragged me over here.’ She pulled him close, kissed him hard, full on his lips; Michael felt the colour rising to his face, but, enjoying the sensation at the same time, put his own arms around her, to the accompaniment of more catcalls and laughter from the assembly. At last, she released him, drew back to look into his eyes; ‘How old are you, Mikey?’

  ‘F-Fourteen!’ He was gasping for breath.

  ‘Oh! You’ll have to be a bit older ’fore I can marry you, then – that’s a shame!’ She kissed him again, just a quick peck this time. She sat down again, and he made his way back to his seat, through the sounds of hilarity that his discomfiture had aroused, feeling his back slapped by many of those he passed on the way.

  The gathering broke up shortly afterwards; as they rose to go, Sylvie confronted Michael and Albert:

  ‘I’ll do Christmas dinner tomorrow – I mean today! Please join me?’ They exchanged glances:

  ‘Ginny’s doin’ ourn, ent she?’

  ‘Yes, Dad – but mebbe we could koind o’ join forces?’

  ‘Yeah – yeh moostn’t be alone on Christmas day, Sylvie. Coom round ter the Antrim, ‘n we’ll ’ave it all tergether.’

  ‘Okay! See you later, then!’ She staggered off. Albert turned to Michael, a grin on his face:

  ‘Yeh’d better go‘n keep an oiye on yer noo girlfriend, Moikey, see she doon’t fall in!’

  ‘Yes, Dad!’ Michael put all the irony he could muster into his voice, felt himself pushed off by the shoulders in the direction she had gone.

  * * *

  Christmas Day was a much quieter affair. Many of the boaters gathered again in the Cape, for a lunchtime drink, but some, including Albert and Michael, preferred to keep their headaches at home. As promised, Sylvie joined them, bringing her contributions to the meal and a bottle of good brandy, which was considerably lighter by the time she left. She was quite subdued, probably as a result of a headache of her own – at one point during the afternoon, she began to speak about her family, and the others, already primed on her situation by Michael, let her talk as long as she wanted, easing her mind as she did so. At last, having talked out a lot of her pain, she looked around at their faces apologetically, smiled at the understanding in their eyes.

  Late in the evening, she left them to return to her own boats, saying that her companions would be back in the morning, ready to carry on with their trip. The last they saw of her was a cheery wave from her butty’s hatches as they set off at first light, to tackle Hatton in the chill mist of Boxing Day morning.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The first half of 1944 saw, if that was possible, an increase in the pressure on Britain’s transport facilities. Despite all attempts to keep it hush-hush, it was soon a fairly open secret that the reason was the build-up to an invasion of Western Europe – fortunately, the details did remain safely under wraps, so much so that the Wehrmacht concentrated its opposing forces in the wrong place. On the canals, the result was more orders than could easily be handled, the traffic in munitions heading to the channel ports building up as the Spring progressed into Summer.

  Mary Cavanagh was furious. Furious at the obstinately-stuck boat, furious at the dry weather which had caused the low water levels, furious at the lack of maintenan
ce and dredging, but mostly, furious at herself.

  She had managed to get the Sagitta effectively, and, it seemed, permanently, stuck, all on her own, with no help from anyone. Now, hot, sweaty in her dungarees, she was giving vent to her feelings with language which would have shocked her old circle of friends. Her vocabulary had expanded considerably over the eighteen months she had been on the boats – and it wasn’t just the technical terms like straps and strings, ’ellums and windlasses, breasting-up and lock-wheeling, either. She managed a grin through her anger at the thought of what the Belgravia set would make of the way she had been expressing herself over the last hour!

  Cissie was on the fore-deck, with the long shaft, trying ineffectually to move the bow sideways into deeper water; Sylvie had run the butty against the bank, and scrambled off with another shaft, which she was using against the counter with equally little effect. Mary slammed the gearbox into reverse once more, wound up the engine – the only result, as before, was a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust, drifting off into the summer evening.

  Of all the stupid things to do! Mary mentally berated herself again. It was a cardinal sin, anyway, to take the motor in too close on a turn, if only because it would drag the butty across rather than around the corner; and to do it here, where she knew full well the channel was dangerously shallow even when the water level was well up… Slow goin’, the Jackdaw! More than one of the fulltime boaters had warned them of that – the pound from Hammond Three to Leighton Lock had a reputation; and in mid-June, with the water level many inches off…

  And where were all the other boats? They’d passed a steady stream of them, all day, but now, when they could use some help, there was no-one about! Just that one pair…The arrogant bastard! Most of the old boating families had taken to the trainees, accepting the need for them to take over unoccupied pairs, to help with the war effort, referring to them jocularly as the ‘Idle Women’ – whoever had designed that stupid badge with its ‘I.W.’ motif?. But it was her luck to meet one of the other variety just when she needed some sympathetic assistance – the pair of Grand Union boats had swept by, just after they’d run aground, the steerer’s face carefully hidden behind the cabin chimney, his old trilby hat pulled down low over his eyes. Damn him! His wash had left them, if anything, even more firmly stuck than ever. She wound down the engine again, knocked the gears into neutral, the boat still as immovable as before. But now, she cocked her ears – was that the sound of an engine? Sylvie called out something, but Mary waved her to silence: Yes! For certain, that sounded like a Bolinder, coming from the direction of Stoke Hammond. She called across to Sylvie, cupped her hands to her mouth to shout to Cissie, to hold on for a minute.