Narrow Margins

by Marie Browne

  ‘Hell yes.’

  ‘OK.’ He took a toffee and we lapsed into blessed silence. When he had finally finished the toffee, he started again.

  ‘In 1847 ...’ I pursed my lips and squinted at him; he just laughed.

  Luckily, the train arrived and we all leapt aboard. The sun was still shining and the day’s shopping was a real break. It was actually nice to have spare money to spend for once. We treated ourselves to pizza for lunch and raided the city’s excellent selection of bookshops. The children were a little miffed when they finally realised that we weren’t buying anything of interest, but soon rallied together and by six o’clock, we were staggering back through the streets of March, laden with books and bags. Back on the boat, we unpacked all our purchases and the kids spent the next hour looking, with growing horror, through all their study guides.

  As I unpacked the groceries, Geoff held up a new can opener. ‘Why did you buy this? We already have one.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I took it from him and put it in the drawer. ‘I saw it in Lakeland and just bought it.’

  I always bought them when I saw them now. We didn’t have ‘one’, we actually had four and I had them hidden all over the boat ‘for emergencies’. I didn’t think he needed to know that, so I didn’t tell him – he would have only given me the ‘look’.

  We stayed overnight in March and were back on the water by six o’clock the next morning. The children had taken to sleeping in until about nine so Geoff and I had three hours of sunshine, hot tea, early morning mists, local wildlife and a leisurely breakfast; it was complete bliss.

  As we travelled through the villages, relaxed and just enjoying the ride, I wondered if the children were feeling the same way. I noticed that a lot of the schools had started their autumn term and, watching the students walking together in little chattering groups, resplendent in obviously new uniforms, I was pleased that Charlie and Sam weren’t around to see it, as I was entirely unsure as to whether they would be smug or sad; they seemed to change their views from day to day.

  Ashline Lock, just before Whittlesey, was our first unmanned lock for two years; it was quite nice to rediscover the old skills, although I didn’t think we would be so happy to rediscover the old aches and pains that a day full of locks would bring.

  With the weather being so glorious, there were still a lot of boats travelling. We didn’t bother to stop in Whittlesey this time, and, with me in charge of Happy, we headed onward toward the dreaded Whittlesey Corner.

  I wasn’t worried about it; we had made it around last time, so we knew without a shadow of a doubt that we would make it around this time as well. As we approached the Corner, I was going too fast, again, and we didn’t make it. I ran Happy soundly into the trees at the side of the turn and Geoff, giving me a look of absolute disgust, had to go back to the front with his pole. We finally made it round with only one deep scrape on the new blacking.

  Stupid trees. I figure the only reason Geoff made it round and I didn’t was obviously due to the trees having grown vastly in the last two years. That was my excuse anyway; Geoff was smug.

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered at him, ‘I know, I know, slow down.’

  Stanground Sluice, in bright sunshine and coming from the other direction, gave a completely different impression to the previous visit; still not a bat in sight, no lightning, no thunder and once through, we pulled into Peterborough calmly and efficiently.

  Once again, I was oddly disappointed. Where were the terrors that I remembered so well? There was nothing here, it was just a nice mooring in a tree-lined park that gave us the opportunity to have a picnic and for the kids to play ball games and scream each other into lassitude. Sitting on the grass with an egg sandwich, I replayed the last visit in my mind. Finally I gave up and turned to Geoff.

  ‘Why is this so different from last time?’ I broke the crust of my sandwich off, finally caving in to the threats of a nearby swan. ‘I know the sun is shining and we aren’t under pressure, but I didn’t think it would feel so different.’

  Geoff looked around. ‘I don’t think it is different,’ he said, ‘we are.’

  ‘What?’ With the swan looming and hissing over me, I couldn’t really grasp what he meant and, standing up, went and sat with him on the bench.

  ‘Well,’ he looked over at Happy, rocking gently on the end of her tethers, ‘we were so unsure of what we were doing, didn’t know where we were going, and now we know it just doesn’t really matter because, Best Beloved, we are like cats.’

  ‘Cats?’

  ‘Yes.’ Geoff stood up and adopted an oratory pose. ‘I am the cat that walks by itself and all places are alike to me.’ He grinned.

  I stood up and hailed the kids.

  ‘Come on, guys! Your father has started quoting Kipling, it’s time to go.’

  Geoff put on a very overdone ‘hurt’ look. ‘You would have preferred Shakespeare?’

  I turned to the swan, who was trying to sneak up on the picnic bag. ‘Kill,’ I commanded, pointing at Geoff.

  We had hoped to make it all the way back to Fotheringhay, but dawdling for too long in Peterborough had put a stop to that, so we decided to stop just outside Nassington. Full of nonchalant experience, and lithe as cats, we pulled Happy into a reed bed and Geoff made a casual and athletic leap for the bank. Wool gathering, looking around trying to spot landmarks from the previous visit, I wasn’t really watching what he was doing, and was only alerted that there might be a problem when the sound of furious splashing, accompanied by a string of expletives, wafted on the warm evening breeze toward me from over the side of the boat.

  I peered over the side and spotted Geoff apparently walking on water – well, to be honest, he was more running, jumping and bounding on water. I watched him with wide eyes as he made a leap for the bank and collapsed panting in a heap in a mound of nettles (ouch).

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I enquired gently when I thought he may have enough breath to answer.

  It turned out that he had jumped into what he thought was the bank beyond the reed bed, and it wasn’t. There was still about four foot of water beneath him, but the reeds were so thick, they had bent and he had been able to use them as a semi-solid surface and run across them, although with every step he had sunk and had to take another, which was why he was moving so fast.

  Finally regaining his breath, he wandered along the bank and held out his hand for me to throw him the rope, mooring pins and hammer that I had lined up on the roof. I threw the hammer toward him and it hit him on the foot. When he had finished hopping about, I (more carefully) threw a mooring pin toward him; too carefully, it disappeared into the river. The second pin was more successful and the rope he caught. Watching him hammer in the pin, it occurred to me that experience was really no match for poor aim and plain stupidity.

  Later that evening, with the kids tucked up in bed, we spent another fruitless hour going through boat magazines in an effort to find another home. Geoff leaned back and tossed the magazine down the boat. I looked up, surprised at his vehemence.

  ‘What do you really think about getting a barge?’ He looked into his tea cup. ‘I mean a proper barge; I really fancy getting something that would be able to go to sea.’

  I squeaked slightly, ‘What – really go to sea? Like sail to America or something?’

  ‘No, not that far. Just off shore, so we could bring one back across the Channel,’ Geoff grinned. ‘You said there were some really great boats in France and Holland.’

  I winced. ‘Yes, there are, but I was assuming someone else would bring it back and it would be delivered ... Don’t you have to have some major qualifications to take a boat to sea?’

  Geoff got up and ferreting about in the bookcase brought out a booklet marked ‘CEVNI’.

  ‘What’s that?’ I took the booklet from him and studied it.

  ‘CEVNI is the qualification you have to have for European Inland Waterways.’ Geoff took the booklet back and began leafing through
it. ‘It’s pretty much like the one we already have for the UK, just European.’

  I looked again at the book. ‘How long have you had that?’

  He had the grace to look a little embarrassed. ‘About three months.’

  ‘And when exactly, were you going to broach the subject with me?’ I grinned at his silence. ‘Surely this “CEVNI” isn’t the only thing you need to get a boat back across the Channel?’

  ‘Well, no, you need to be able to operate a radio and there are some other courses we could take, “Day Skipper” and that sort of thing.’

  ‘I think your walk on water attempt has addled your brain.’ I stood up and collected the cups to go and make another cup of tea. ‘I get really seasick, you know.’

  Geoff, knowing that he was well on the way to winning this conversation, laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll pack a whole load of sick bags and nausea tablets for you – and think of the lovely view of the marine life you’ll get when you’re hanging over the side.’

  ‘Shut up, Jesus!’

  By ten o’clock the next morning we had moored in Fotheringhay; it was an incredibly hot and airless day. Pausing only for a quick history lesson on the site of Fotheringhay Castle, much to the chagrin of the children, we meandered along the footpath to Warmington for a shop visit, Geoff and I still discussing Mary Queen of Scots and her heartless beheading, Charlie and Sam running ahead of us, hitting each other with sticks.

  Chapter Thirty

  Either I Hate Insects or They Hate Me

  TRAVELLING FOR THE NEXT couple of days, I was disappointed that the journey was less than exciting. In fact, the only memorable incident between Fotheringhay and Erthlingborough came once again at a mooring. Seeing a lovely, sheltered, wooded spot, we had pulled over and, as we had no intention of leaving the boat that evening, we had decided to just tie her front and back to trees. Geoff clambered into the undergrowth holding a rope, intending to just pass it around a branch and tie it back on the T stud on the top of the boat. In this way, we wouldn’t have to get off the boat in the morning; we could just untie it at the top, pull it away from the tree and head on our merry way.

  As I watched him trying to climb a large tree I became aware of an odd noise, a humming. The engine was off, and I looked inside the engine room to see if it was the electrics – no ... I stood on the back with my head cocked, trying desperately to place the sound. Geoff had managed to scale the tree to the first branch and was now hanging from it monkey-like, swinging backward and forward trying to pass the rope to Charlie who was standing on top of the boat, giggling and deliberately failing to catch it, so that she could watch Geoff swinging about upside down. Sam, sitting on the roof watching them, was shouting instructions.

  I worked out that the sound was coming from the tree to my left and, grabbing a branch, I moved it aside in an effort to ascertain what on earth was making the irritating noise.

  As I moved the branch, the noise increased and I peered into the foliage wondering what on earth it was. Hanging from one of the branches was a moving mass from which the deepening hum emanated.

  Oh crap, crap, crap. I put the branch back very carefully and shouted,

  ‘Get back on the boat, Geoff. Now!’

  ‘What?’ he peered at me, red in the face from his upside-down position.

  Not wanting to make any quick movements, I hissed at him,

  ‘Get back on the boat, right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is a swarm of bees in this tree and I think I have just pissed them off by rustling around in the branches.’

  The noise increased and small furry bodies began to emerge from the tree, flying around my head. Charlie took one look and, grabbing Sam by the hand, she abandoned Geoff and the ropes. She hustled them both, screaming, down the roof and, throwing Sam safely into the boat, she followed him with an impressive and athletic dive through the front hatch which she then closed and bolted. Geoff, so slowly I could cheerfully have killed him, climbed down off his perch and back on to the boat. By this time I was standing rigid and immobile (no sudden movements) and had my own set of little yellow and brown stripy satellites; the humming had become a deep drone. More and more bees appeared and I was beginning to panic.

  ‘For God’s sake, will you get back on the bloody boat?’

  Geoff looked surprised and finally took in all of my little friends hovering above my head and my wide-eyed and lock-jawed immobility.

  He made a jump for the gunwales, dragging the rope with him.

  ‘Finally,’ I hissed, exasperated, ‘thank you.’ I turned the engine on and held my breath as Geoff pushed us away from the bank with the use of the barge pole. The sound of the engine starting brought on a new note from the tree and my nerve finally broke. Slamming Happy hard into forward I held on to the tiller with one hand and flapped the other about my head. This infuriated the bees further and, as more came to find out what was going on, we hightailed it up the river with a buzzing kite tail of enraged insects trailing behind us.

  Still breathing heavily, we finally stopped a little further on, and moored on open ground without a tree in site.

  Apart from killer bees, there was very little of note. Locks held no terrors for us, we had been this way before, so there was nothing new to see and I was still having real difficulty linking this gentle sun-filled, holiday-type travel with the incident-filled journey of two years ago.

  We stopped at Erthlingborough again, but unlike last time, due to Sam’s face being its normal size and not looking like a hamster that had swallowed a red nightlight, there was no rush and we pottered about, chatting to people about boats and enjoying the sunshine. We also had time to have a long wander around the huge car boot sale that is held there, where we watched the kids pander to their latest craze and spend all their money on Yu-Gi-Oh! cards, exclaiming with delight over each new bargain; all in all, a thoroughly relaxed and enjoyable day.

  Just past Billing Aquadome, we came out of the lock at a poor angle. We needed to turn sharply right, which would have put us nose to nose with a boat coming the other way, but, instead, and trying to avoid the other boat, I kept Happy going in a straight line and found myself once again in the huge expanse of water that had so terrified me on the way up.

  I pulled the boat deliberately out into the centre and cut the engine.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Geoff looked around and then frowned at me.

  ‘This is where I was telling you about,’ I indicated back at the lock. ‘Look we were coming from the other direction and I missed the lock and ended up here with that wind – I thought I was going to die.’

  Geoff laughed and looked around. ‘It doesn’t look that scary to me,’ he said.

  ‘No it doesn’t, does it?’ I also looked around. ‘Isn’t that odd.’ I put Happy in forward again and turned the same 180-degree turn that I had before. She came around like a perfect lady and we headed back towards the mooring.

  In counselling terms ‘empathy’ is viewing a specific situation from another person’s viewpoint, and this view will always be filtered through your own experience and perception. Obviously on the way up I was viewing this turn and many other situations through the perception of an inexperienced novice, floundering in an unknown situation that I had been forced into by circumstance. On the way back, alternatively, we were seeing it all through the eyes of a relaxed and experienced ‘old hand’. It’s true that your perception makes a world of difference to everything you do.

  Our next stop was for a day in Northampton. Charlie got her hair very trendily cut and then moaned that there were no friends to see it. We stayed overnight, moving Happy down a quarter of a mile in the morning to enable a restock of supplies at Morrison’s (I couldn’t believe how many can openers they had there!) Pulling away from Northampton, we headed toward the lock at the Northampton Arm; I was looking forward to being back on the canal again, rather than this wide river. The moorings were non-existent at the lock, so, while waiting for Geoff t
o open the gates, I pulled Happy over to the right and just held on to a tree.

  Standing there for a couple of minutes, my hand began to itch and I let go of the tree to scratch it against a branch. A couple of seconds later and my forearm began to itch, so I turned to scratch it with my other hand. arrrrrgh! My whole arm was covered in red bugs. I let go of the tree with a scream and let Happy drift free, while performing a wild ‘bug’ war dance on the back of the boat, knocking them off me and into the water. Without much of a current, we hadn’t moved far and I peered into the branches of the tree to see where they had come from.

  The tree was crawling with them, under every leaf and up and down the branches – yuck! I have no major problem with bugs per se, as living on a boat you tend to become completely blasé about having to collect up to ten large spiders out of the shower before you get in; you need the spiders, they eat all the midges and mozzies. But en masse, like these little red things, they completely freak me out. So I wasted no time in applying some power and moving Happy over to the other side of the channel, as far away as possible.

  As the lock gates opened and I prepared to enter, still shuddering and scratching occasionally, I noticed another boat coming alongside the tree and a woman reaching for the same branch.

  ‘No!’ I yelled across the water to her. ‘Don’t hold that, it’s covered in bugs.’

  The lady, obviously in her later years, put her hand up to her ear. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t hold that tree – it’s covered in bugs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t hold that tree, it’s ... oh never mind.’

  She smiled and nodded, waving at me; it was obvious that she couldn’t hear a word I was saying. I smiled back and carried on pulling Happy into the lock.

  There was only a small rise in water needed and we were out pretty quickly. As Geoff got back on to the boat we could hear screams from behind us.

  ‘What the hell’s going on back there?’ he asked, leaning on the tiller and trying to peer over the lock gates.

  I shrugged, knowing that there was no way I could adequately explain the sense of horror and loathing that a crawling mass of bugs engenders. I did try to warn them, I really, really did.