He did not know how long he stayed with her, but at last he managed to drag himself away, pulling the broken warehouse door back into position. He decided not to mention the boat in his site report; he didn’t know what to write about it. He was aware of feeling strongly about it. And he wasn’t the kind of man who felt strongly about anything. He was not a man of conviction, as his father said.
Donald Fallagh was the son of a politician, now retired, formerly MP for Harrow West. Once a formidable orator, Patrick Fallagh was dying now and only moved between the armchair and the bed. He ate his meals from a tray on his lap. But he still brandished rhetoric from his armchair, jabbing a discoloured finger at whoever was there to listen. Once a week this was Donald. He had a flat in Pimlico but came home on Sundays. He sat in the other chair by the fire while his father talked. His father’s vision for Britain had not materialised and neither had his vision for his son, who held a junior position in the Ministry of Transport. Under a Labour Government. Donald was made to understand that these things were the results of his own weakness. He felt his father’s disappointment as disgust, and was forced to know it weekly, sitting by the fireplace. He was a flimsy betrayal of the old man in the chair opposite. A real man would have achieved something by now. A real son would have leapt up and sworn to uphold his father’s legacy. But Donald just sat there, looking into the fireplace. He looked down and scratched at the piping on the armchair cover, or sipped at his teacup long after it was empty. His mother was a quick shadow in and out of the room, clearing the food tray, stoking the fire, fetching an extra blanket.
That Sunday, Patrick Fallagh looked even weaker, his body seemed shrunken in its clothes and his face had become a sort of grimace, toothy and wet-lipped. He still roused himself to speak, but his ranting was less constant – it came in shorter volleys and then tailed off. Donald did not squirm at the silence as he usually did. He found he had allowed his mind to go back to the warehouse by the canal. He was imagining what would happen if he didn’t submit a report for the warehouse, if he didn’t put it forward for demolition. If he went back to see the boat.
The following Saturday, he arrived at the warehouse with tools and kit for cleaning. Once inside the doors, he approached the boat slowly, treading gently on the carpet of feathers as if she was asleep. He had brought a bucket of water and started by brushing down her sides. The top layer of paint had come off with the crust of dirt and bird droppings, but in the underpaint the boat’s decoration was legible in red script against a blue background: Chaplin and Company, Est. 1936. Donald felt as if he’d unearthed treasure that was three hundred years old, not thirty.
He’d checked the hull. It seemed intact. The structure of the main cabin was also in good condition – it was only the outer planks which had gone bad. In the engine room he had found a fold-down shelf with a cloth bag underneath, which was half disintegrated and full of droppings. There was a gas mask beneath this with the glass missing from both eyes. The face of the mask was cracked rubber, the strings green with mould. And he was able to decipher the dial set in the lowered ceiling of the engine room: a hand-painted compass, its needle still balanced on its point, trembling towards south-east.
The debris in the main cabin consisted of old tins, crates and sacking. Donald didn’t feel these things were his to dispose of. He put them into one intact sack and left it in the corner of the warehouse behind a bicycle whose frame was iced with rust and droppings.
His mind went over these things as he sat opposite his father the next day. Patrick Fallagh wheezed and ranted. But, again, Donald was immune. Instead of rehearsing responses to himself, he rehearsed pulling up the rotten wood from the decks of the boat, polishing the brass around the portholes, finding paints to trace the outline of the letters along her side.
Every Saturday he went back and worked on the boat. He worked late, driving a hook into the ceiling of the cabin and hanging a hurricane lamp to see by. The lamp’s flame lit the cabin waxy yellow, a warm capsule in the black of the warehouse. Donald’s world shrank to this as he worked through the night. Sometimes, as he sat back against the boat’s walls, pausing between tasks, he imagined he could feel tiny movements in the boat, as if she were on water. Or yearning to be.
He worked hard. He replaced the timbers on the decks and varnished them. He scrubbed and painted. Repaired the roof, re-tarred the hull. As he worked he heard the pigeons scratching on the roof and during the day some would clamber through the rusted warehouse holes and sit watching him from the eaves. He felt proud of his work, a balloon inflating bit by bit inside him. But in the weekdays he would grow terrified: that on Saturday he might go back to find her gone. He left a loose plank above the doorway to the engine room and kept his tools inside. He also put the gas mask into this gap, and the remains of the drawstring bag – he wasn’t sure why: perhaps he felt they simply belonged to the boat.
During the weeks he read about narrowboat building and steering and looked at diagrams of engines, careful to hide the books from colleagues at work. He ordered new parts for the boat’s engine and learned how to install them. All this felt audacious and irresponsible and pointless, given that the boat might be claimed and destroyed at any time. But he didn’t want to think about what he was doing. To think would be to puncture the feeling it was giving him.
Donald restored the boat in eleven weeks. In the twelfth week his father died. He received a message on his desk at work and telephoned his mother. He was given leave. He went home and saw his father laid out on the bed in a suit with his hair greased back as it never had been. The eyes were sunk and the jowls had a sort of weight to them, seeming to pull the lips slightly apart. Teeth just showing. His fingers were paper white but still looked full of life. Donald felt that if he touched them they would grip hard and never let him go.
After the funeral Donald took his mother home and stayed the night, sitting awake in the armchair by the fireplace. The next morning he went directly to the warehouse. He went to the doors at the far end and kicked at them. It worked. They split easily from their hinges and with a great groan fell backwards together into the canal. Sunlight rushed in. He pulled the base of the doors up to make a ramp and water sloshed at their edges. Donald went to the back of the trolley and pushed. The wheels creaked and began to turn. They sang. They hit the edge of the ramp and began to tug forwards. He let them go. The trolley ran down the ramp and off the end it dropped. The boat breasted the water and levelled itself, rocking backwards and forwards, making waves that washed over Donald’s shoes and the ends of the fallen doors. As it settled in the water he heard a sound like a sigh come from the bows of the boat and felt his lungs release too, his shoulders drop.
He was able to reach the trunk of the tiller, grabbed it and lifted himself aboard. He saw the trolley wheels sinking below the surface of the water. When he opened the cabin doors, the hurricane lamp was swinging side to side from the hook in the roof. He let her level, stood at the ignition and stopped his breath to pray as he pulled the engine on. He opened his eyes again to hear the first tugs of the motor as she came to life.
SIXTEEN
John Kettle unfolds the piece of paper again and looks at the map. It has been badly photocopied and sits at a slant near the top of the page. There is a large arrow pointing to a cross at the centre of a jumble of rectangles. The line of a railway track winds along the top of the map. Underneath in faded type are details of the first meeting. Your Community Alcohol Awareness Programme will be directed by Rev. A. Pillet. So they are sending him off to be preached at by the God Squad. He is going to need a drink after this.
He has followed the towpath, then walked a minute or so inland, through the housing estates and clusters of tower blocks. He is in the middle of one of these clusters now, standing on some threadbare grass next to a bin that has had its front panel ripped off. It is impossible to tell where he is on the map. Little roads lead off in all directions between the patches of grass – every time he’s followed one it’s
taken him down another dead end and he’s found himself in a grubby courtyard, two or three tower blocks looming over him with God knows who living inside. And dog shit everywhere. Packs of kids on bikes wheeling past, so close some of them hit his shoulder. They pedalled off before he could yell. Feral rats. Delinquent youth. Why aren’t you in school?
John Kettle stuffs the map back into his pocket and checks his watch. Quarter past four. He is late. Can’t be helped. The God Squadders can wait a bit. He rummages through his other pocket. Forgot the tobacco, damn it, he could do with a smoke. He lifts the cap from the front of his head and wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, then jams the cap back down. He walks across the grass to join another road. This one has speedbumps, so it could be the way out. He turns the corner and sure enough there’s the bloody church, sitting in a square of grass with a pathway leading up to the porch. It looks more like the house of Dracula than the house of God. The huge square stones are blackened with dirt and wire grilles have been fixed over the windows. There is a crescent-shaped flowerbed opposite the front of the church which has one skeleton plant in it, and is spotted with little plastic bags. More dog shit.
A painted sign sticks up next to the flowerbed. Welcome to St Philip’s. The service times have been sprayed out by graffiti.
Bloody hell, John Kettle says to himself. What a dump. He walks into the porch and twists the iron door handle, hearing the latch echo inside. The door creaks open: a horror film. This is a bloody bad joke. Do they really send people to this place for help? He peers around the door. The inside of the church is lit yellow by blazing floodlights strapped to the top of the stone columns. There is almost no light coming through the windows – he can see the tight grilles through the panes of stained glass. The altar is empty apart from a pair of gold candlesticks with chains shackling their bases like handcuffs. The main body of the church is filled with two banks of orange plastic chairs, arranged in rows with a blue carpet running up the middle. At the back of the church there is an area enclosed by bookshelves and beanbags, with an ethnic rug in the middle. Five plastic chairs are arranged in a circle, and four of them are being sat on. In the chair facing the door is a young bloke in a dog collar. He gets up when he sees John Kettle and paces over, his hand outstretched. The sleeves of his black vicar’s shirt are rolled up above the elbow, he is wearing blue trousers with brown lace-ups and has little round wire-rimmed specs. Looks like some grub just off to university.
‘Hi, welcome.’ He blinks through the specs. ‘You must be John?’
‘If you say so,’ says John Kettle, shaking the bloke’s hand, a surprisingly firm grip. Still looks about twelve though. Bald arms, thin hair in a side parting and pink cheeks that surely haven’t seen a razor. ‘Bit spooky this place.’
The vicar laughs. ‘It’s not the most idyllic setting. I’m sorry if you had trouble finding it. These estates are quite a rabbit warren. Anyway, here you are. Come and meet the group.’
‘Aye-aye, Captain.’ John Kettle tips his hat, and then takes it off and smooths the hair over the top of his head before fixing it back on and walking over.
Oh God. It’s that rank old tramp, the black one, from by the canal. She’s sitting in a chair one away from the vicar’s, wearing a belted mackintosh, probably nicked, and her hair matted and hanging in a sort of bob, like she’s got a net on. He can smell her: body stench mixed with sweet-reeking alcohol. He walks round to the empty chair to the right of the vicar’s, and sits down, looks at the shelves around the edge of the ethnic rug, stuffed with children’s books and toys.
‘Hello, Warden.’ The tramp. Her thick, curling voice has an edge of laughter to it. He looks over and she is smiling. The chapped lips are stretched back to show big, yellow teeth. She is sitting stately, pleased with herself, her hands clasped beneath her bosom like a headmistress. She is square-shouldered and square-jawed. And square-bodied, although that could be the bulk of all her stinking clothes. She appears to be wearing checked chef’s trousers under the mackintosh. They are too short and reveal bony ankles in black tights going into loafers with gold snaffles – the loafers planted outwards like duck’s feet on the carpet. The shoes look new, probably nicked too. She raises a grey eyebrow and the skin of her forehead creases blacker.
‘So, you have got yourself in trouble too?’ Her voice is regal and she speaks slowly, enjoying the words, rolling them out.
He looks around to the other two in the group and rolls his eyes, but gets nothing back. The woman sitting next to the tramp is blank-faced and upright in the plastic seat. She is tall with ash-blonde hair falling in two panels from a centre parting and a big necklace of amber beads. Like a young hippy. But she’s probably fifty-odd, and dressed in crumpled, beige clothes and God Squad sandals. She has high cheekbones and big pale blue eyes, and is looking back at him without seeming to focus. Probably high on drugs.
The final member of the group is the boy on John Kettle’s right, who is leaning forward, rubbing his shaved head with his hands. He has a rucksack on the floor beside him and is tapping the side of it with his suede trainer. Druggie too? He looks too neat to be a down-and-out: the hoodie is baggy, but it looks clean. But you never know. The boy brings his arms down to lean on his knees; the sleeves are cupped over his fists. John Kettle feels the wad of notes in his breast pocket and looks down to check it’s buttoned.
‘Right.’ The vicar is sitting cross-legged with an open folder on his knee. His trousers have ridden up to show pink and green striped socks, schoolboy socks. ‘John, we started doing introductions but we’ll go through them again to make sure you’re up to speed. This –’ he gestures to the pale woman – ‘is Inga. We’re doing just first names here.’ The pale woman doesn’t move and he extends his arm to the grizzled, stinking, mackintoshed figure next to her. ‘This is Mary.’
‘We know each other,’ the tramp says in a low voice, bowing her head graciously to the vicar.
‘We don’t know each other,’ says John Kettle. ‘She annoys my residents. Singing and caterwauling on the towpath all day.’
‘Better than keeping them awake all night,’ says Mary, delighted, letting out a hoot of laughter.
The vicar puts his hand up. ‘Okay, this is very unusual, for two group members to know each other. Even vaguely.’ He blinks at John Kettle through his little round specs. His eyes are slightly enlarged behind the lenses, like in joke-shop glasses. ‘Is this going to be a problem? We can swap one of you to another session if you think it could prevent you from engaging with the work here.’
‘Won’t make any difference,’ John Kettle says. ‘She doesn’t bother me.’
‘Mary?’
‘I’m happy,’ she says, stretching her fingers and clasping them again, shuffling back into her seat. Like a rancid old hen.
‘Okay. If you’re sure.’ The vicar looks from one to the other, his cheeks flushed like a choirboy’s. ‘Okay, let’s carry on. John, this is Chris.’ The lad nods at John Kettle, raises his hand and looks back down at his trainers. ‘Everyone, this is John. And, last in the circle –’ the vicar puts a hand on his chest – ‘I’m Alwyn.’ John Kettle sniggers. Vicarish name.
‘I was saying to the others, John, just before you came in, that, as we do first names only here, that includes me. No Reverend, no Father. We could be princes, doctors, hardened criminals, but when we come here we leave our status at the door.’ He looks round at the group. The pale woman nods – it’s the first time John Kettle has seen her move. ‘Whatever goes on in our week, whatever we do or don’t do, we just have to make one commitment, to turn up here twice a week. Sunday midday and Thursday at four. Or thereabouts,’ he adds, smiling at John Kettle. ‘Does that make sense to everyone?’
‘Hardly rocket science,’ says John Kettle.
‘Great. The other thing to mention is this –’ the vicar puts a finger inside his dog collar. ‘We can ignore this. This is my day job. It needn’t be relevant here unless you want it to be. Feel free to ask any
questions but I’m not going to bring God into the work we do here. It’s for each person to find their own way, not for me to give you mine.’ He looks up at the church. ‘This venue is free, that’s why we’re using it.’
‘So it’s not a Christian course?’ asks the lad on John’s right, huddled into his hoodie as if it’s cold. ‘We’re not here to be reformed?’
‘You’d have a job reforming this one!’ Mary wiggles her head.
‘No, it’s not a Christian course. And this is definitely not a prayer group.’
The lad nods to himself, gives half a laugh.
‘Thank God for that,’ says John Kettle.
‘Yes,’ the vicar smiles, and runs a hand through his hair, combing it back into its side parting. ‘People are usually relieved when I get to that bit.’
He stands up and rubs his hands. ‘Right then. I’d like to start with a little exercise. It might seem a bit odd but hopefully you’ll see the point of it.’ He nods around the group but only Mary is looking back, beaming at him like a halfwit. The lad is watching his toes wriggle in the end of his trainers and the pale woman is looking down her nose at her string of beads, her fist closed around the end of it. She’s got a cold look about her. Snooty, a bit like Madam from the Chaplin and Company, but she’s frailer, more willowy in her floaty clothes. She doesn’t, for instance, look like she’s got a broom up her arse.
He checks his pockets again. God, he could do with a smoke.
The vicar picks up a green crate from a seat by the back wall and brings it over to the group. From the crate, he lifts out a potted plant on a terracotta tray and hands it to the pale woman, then gives one to each of the other three and takes one for himself before sitting down. John looks down at the frilly blue flowers in his lap, the thick stubby leaves. There is a plastic tag sticking out of the soil which says Busy Lizzie Perennial.
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