Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  Gary turned and walked quickly back towards his own mooring. But now he strode out. There was a gleam in his eye. This was his Saturday night out.

  The maiden solo cruise almost went well. Sally Ann burbled happily along and Marnie felt almost in control. At the moorings beyond the tunnel, boaters looked up and waved. Some raised wine glasses to her.

  Under the grey railway bridges where gloomy grey pigeons huddled on the girders just above her head, Marnie guided Sally Ann, the engine booming and echoing in the confined space. A moment later they emerged into Regent’s Park, where trees now coming into full leaf hung over the water. Set back all around were smart mansion blocks and impressive residences in landscaped grounds.

  The engine hesitated momentarily, gave a cough and settled back to a steady rhythm. Strollers on the towpath smiled. A young man on roller-blades, solemn-faced with spiky crew cut, dark glasses and Walkman headset raised a laid-back hand and swept past. Everyone was out enjoying the warm evening.

  The plan was to take Sally Ann down to the pool, turn round the island, go back to the tunnel, then through the park before turning and heading for home. Just a short practice tootle. All too soon she cruised through the zoo and saw the right-angled turn by the bridge at Cumberland Basin up ahead. She hove-to while a pleasure boat pulled round the bend and came towards her. On board, a quartet was playing Dixieland jazz, a few couples were dancing, others eating from baskets.

  The pleasure boat’s steerer waved all clear and on impulse Marnie changed plans. Instead of going back, she headed off towards Camden Lock. This stretch of the canal ran behind the gardens of tall houses as old as the cut. People were sitting out talking, eating, laughing.

  At Camden Lock the canal widened into a basin. Music blasted from loudspeakers. The smell of food wafted from stalls and booths. People milled about in the market on the left bank. Many were dressed in bright costumes with fringes, coloured headbands, beads and armlets. It was merry but with a hint of menace, like a medieval fair.

  This was a very public place to attempt a manoeuvre by herself for the first time. Marnie took a deep breath, threw the tiller hard over and accelerated to push the stern round. While she was reversing in the middle of the three-point turn, a restaurant boat went by, its broad beam blocking access to the channel, its wake pushing Sally Ann to the side.

  Marnie was dismayed to find that the bank was formed by a low platform on a frame of scaffolding. She left the tiller and walked along the gunwale towards the bows. The nearest part of this pontoon was just above water level. As she struggled to reach down to it from the gunwale, a man detached himself from the crowd and began moving towards her in a heavy lumbering shuffle. He was built like a wrestler, with black hair shaved at back and sides leaving a tuft on the top and a pony-tail at the back. Marnie saw him coming and her heart nearly stopped beating. She strained desperately to touch the pontoon, but could barely scrape it with her fingertips.

  The man wore a studded leather jerkin over a torn khaki T-shirt. His arms were bare with exotic tattoos over thick muscles. Marnie could hear his boots thudding on the platform and in a few seconds he was upon her. She froze.

  “Let me help you.” His voice was quiet.

  Marnie was conscious of his bulk looming beside her. “I got pushed over by the restaurant.”

  “I saw.” He moved past and took up a position near the bows. “It often happens. If you’d like to get back to the tiller, I'll push you clear.”

  She backed along the gunwale while he began pushing the boat away. Marnie pulled the lever into gear. The engine coughed once before picking up speed.

  “Thanks!” Marnie pressed on the accelerator. “I’m really grateful.”

  The man raised a hand and his tattoos rippled.

  Sally Ann was now clear, but the way ahead was blocked by the dead slow restaurant boat creeping along. There was no room to pass for at least half a mile. Rather than inhale its exhaust fumes, Marnie tied up at the bank to watch the world go by for the next twenty minutes.

  When she pressed the starter button, the engine fired at once and only wheezed slightly. Approaching Cumberland Basin it coughed. Marnie blipped the accelerator to clear its throat and made the turn under the bridge. Running slowly the engine gasped, but when Marnie increased revs it picked up speed. Her relief was short-lived. The engine spluttered, gave a few more coughs and wheezes, faltered and coughed again. Marnie thought of Gary: probably needs a full service, maybe an overhaul. These can be a load of trouble, if you're not careful.

  It settled back to a steady thumping. Marnie crossed her fingers that the obstruction was cleared, but passing through the zoo, the gasping returned. Little Venice was twenty minutes away, and the light was fading fast. The engine began coughing in earnest, worked itself up to a real forty-a-day spasm … and cut out.

  What now? Marnie reviewed the situation. She was a long way from home, alone, with a dead engine, and night was falling. Not promising. Sally Ann drifted under a bridge and pushed her nose into a clump of tall grasses by the bank while her tail swung slowly out.

  Marnie pulled the pole from the roof and thrust it down into the water to try and punt the tail in. She struck the bottom, pushed as hard as she could and the stern began to swing. She tried again with the same result. At the next push, the pole slipped from her grip and floated clear. She cursed out loud as it drifted out of reach in the dark water.

  Marnie looked up at the tall pillars supporting the bridge behind her. The canal was deserted. She flicked the fuel pump switch and pressed the starter. The engine retched a few times and gave up. Options. She could wait for someone to come past and give her a tow. But didn’t the trip boats stop at sunset? She could call out to a passer-by to get help. What help? What passer-by? She remembered the gates to the park were locked at sunset.

  In the undergrowth something rustled. She looked round. It stopped. Probably a duck or a coot or maybe a rat. The red fuel pump light was glowing. She switched it off. There was more rustling. Wild animals never escaped from the zoo, did they? Marnie hoped they were all safely tucked up in their cages for the night. There it was again.

  Somewhere in the zoo an animal called out, a long hooting cry from darkest Africa, darkest Regent’s Park. There were few lights along this part of the canal. Marnie heard the shuffling again. It seemed to come from the darkness under the bridge.

  Marnie sat on the lid of the gas bottle locker. There was that sound, a distinct shuffle, then another. Sally Ann's water pump growled faintly. This time she saw movement in the gloom under the bridge, heard murmurings. There was no doubt about it. Marnie was not alone. Not normally given to panic or fear of the dark, she had a healthy sense of self-preservation. Something was approaching in the darkness and it was no small creature. Time for action.

  Marnie got up and raced along the gunwale, trying to find a firm bank to push Sally off with her foot. It was hopeless. The long grasses kept her clear of solid ground. She hurried back to the stern deck, flicked the fuel pump switch and pressed the starter button. The engine clattered and came to life. Marnie sighed with relief and pulled the heavy lever into forward gear. In the same movement she turned to press down the accelerator. The engine spluttered and died. In the shadows Marnie made out the shape of a man coming towards her very slowly under the bridge.

  Turning in desperation, she saw the pole floating beside the boat and threw herself down on her knees to grab it. Suddenly, she was flooded with light and jumped with shock. From nowhere, a boat was pulling in alongside her. The light from its headlamp passed by and she heard the engine revving as the boat came to a halt. From the stern deck, the steerer bent down and pulled the pole from the water, lifting it clear and setting it on the roof of Sally Ann.

  “I think you will be needing this.” The steerer had an old voice, dry and brittle. He pronounced each word distinctly, as if he was speaking a foreign language.

  Marnie took a deep breath. She felt foolish. “I didn't hear you coming.”
She spoke in a breathless half-whisper.

  “It's the men. They sleep under the bridge.” Old Peter spoke with slow deliberation. “I always slow down here and switch off the light.”

  What men? Marnie wondered. “You don't want to disturb them?”

  “That, and other reasons.”

  “My engine cut out. I thought I was going to have to stay here all night.”

  “You have diesel in the tank?”

  “Yes,” Marnie said confidently and hoped she was right.

  “Fuel filter,” he said, though whether it was a question or statement she was not sure.

  Marnie tried to remember what she had read about the engine. “I don't know,” she said simply.

  “I will check it.”

  Old Peter tied his boat to Sally Ann round a T-bracket at the stern. Marnie went forward to secure the bows and returned to find him standing on her deck with a toolbox. He lifted out part of the decking, knelt on the steps and switched on a lamp to light up the engine. He had white hair thin on the top, with broad shoulders and powerful forearms. Close up, his features were sharper than she had expected. He loosened a nut under the bowl of the fuel filter. Fluid dripped out as the old man removed the filter drum.

  “Water.”

  “Water?” Marnie repeated.

  “Condensation in the tank. It gets into the fuel line when the level falls.”

  Marnie watched as he wiped out the bowl with a rag and held the filter in the beam of light, twisting it slowly between his fingers.

  “Have you a can of diesel?”

  Marnie had no idea. “No.”

  Old Peter went back to his boat and returned carrying a fuel can and an empty jam jar. He knelt on the steps, poured some fuel into the jar and dropped the filter drum into the pink liquid. The air was filled with the whiff of diesel. From his toolbox he took out an elderly toothbrush and worked it round the drum, wiped it with the rag and re-assembled the filter. The process took two minutes.

  “Try now.”

  Marnie pressed the starter button. The engine turned over several times before firing. The old man wiped his hands on the rag, listening to the note of the engine. He stood up. Marnie was so relieved, she wanted to hug him. She had to raise her voice over the noise of the engine.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded and untied the rope attaching the boats. “You go ahead. I will follow in case of trouble.”

  “Okay, but I'm sure it’ll be fine.”

  “Perhaps.” He paused while turning. “Best not to come along here in the dark. It can be … unpleasant.”

  “Dangerous?”

  The old man hesitated before replying quietly in his cracked voice. “In the last four years I have pulled three bodies out of the canal in this place.”

  The other reasons why he slowed down … “Bodies?” Marnie breathed the word.

  “The men drink too much, fall asleep, roll down the slope into the water.”

  “So these men aren’t dangerous?” Marnie indicated under the bridge.

  “Only to themselves.”

  “How sad.”

  “Yes, but perhaps a gentle way to go.”

  They set off in convoy. Sally’s engine ran sweet and true all the way home. Marnie took great care to pull in smoothly, so as not to make a fool of herself in front of Old Peter. He brought his boat in close alongside and leaned towards her.

  “It’s running fine,” Marnie told him. “Better than ever.”

  “Good.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Old Peter made that sound again, just two syllables … uh-huh … but it summed up everything that needed saying. He nodded, reached for the accelerator and was gone.

  After he left, Marnie felt bone-weary. She quickly checked all the systems, windows and catches. Back on deck locking the doors, she discovered Old Peter’s fuel can standing in the corner.

  Gary did not walk to Warwick Avenue tube station to meet his date earlier that evening, he wafted along. He had splashed on far too much aftershave and hoped the evening air would dilute some of its power.

  His date, Sheena, came up the steps from the station just seven minutes later than the time they had agreed. This confirmed Gary’s view that she was an up-market bit of totty. By his reckoning, if a girl arrived on time she must be desperate. More than ten minutes late, she was trying to make a point about who was in control. It was their second date, and Gary had high hopes for the evening. That, and his up-market assessment, was why he had chosen to take her to dinner in the small restaurant above the entrance to Maida Hill tunnel.

  Wearing high heels, Sheena was as tall as Gary, and he was pleased to see that she had made an effort for their evening out. Shoulder-length honey-blonde hair and a dress that covered the essentials under a short pink jacket were just the job. When she came up the stairs from the tube station, she took his hand and let him kiss her on both cheeks. In the shoot-out between his aftershave and her perfume, Gary reckoned the result was a score-draw:

  Aramis – 1, Issey Miyake – 1

  He guessed correctly that she had bought the perfume in the local chemist’s where she worked and where he had met her the previous week.

  They arrived at the bistro with no unwanted attention from Gravel, though Gary had the feeling these days that all his movements were being observed. He had asked for a table on the enclosed balcony over the water so that Sheena could enjoy the lights coming on along the canal while dusk descended. It would also provide a subject for conversation if they needed one. Gary’s anxiety proved unfounded. Sheena kept up a bubbly chatter while they read through the menu and began their meal.

  Each time a boat passed under them, Sheena asked Gary what sort it was and whether it was like his. He promised to let her see his boat some time and knew exactly when he planned that time to be. She seemed genuinely interested in boating, and the evening passed pleasantly. Gary asked about her work in the chemist’s and, as she told him of the tribulations of working with a very fussy pharmacist, he noticed idly that Sally Ann’s mooring was empty. The idea flickered across his mind that Sally Ann’s new owner and Old Peter were out together somewhere on a date. The thought brought the suggestion of a smile to his face, which pleased Sheena who was describing an embarrassing incident involving a customer and a prescription for suppositories.

  Gary was pouring wine for Sheena when he saw Sally Ann emerge from the tunnel and pull over onto her mooring, closely followed by Old Peter’s boat which stopped alongside. Marnie and Old Peter exchanged a few words before he went on his way. Odd. What were they doing, travelling together in the dark like that?

  He was still mulling this over when Sheena leaned towards him.

  “Tell me, Gary, are you going out with anyone at the moment?”

  The directness of the question startled him. “What? No darlin’, ’course not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m not. I swear.”

  “You are. You’re going out with me … or you’re supposed to be. Can’t you take your mind off boats for two minutes?” Sheena looked down to the water. A streetlight showed a woman in tight jeans bending over a mooring ring. “Or are you taking an interest in more than just the boats?”

  Gary followed her gaze down to Sally Ann’s and Marnie’s rear ends, shook his head and smiled back. And for the rest of the evening – and much of the night that followed it – gave her his undivided attention.

  11

  Old Peter

  Marnie remembered hearing the alarm clock, but not turning it off. She half-opened one eye and waited while it focused. Nine-fifteen. The sky was sitting on her head. Everything was aching and she lay there trying to work out what day it was.

  Images from a dream were circling inside her brain. She was wading chest high through grass across a flat plain, a vast African sunset ahead of her, something indistinct shuffling along behind, just out of sight. Suddenly she was falling, with fronds of long wate
r grasses wrapping themselves round her legs. She went under, the air bubbling from her lips, feeling cool, without pain or fear.

  Marnie turned onto her side, wishing she was back in the watery dream. Her whole body throbbed. It must be Sunday.

  The hot shower and the thought of breakfast began the revival. She stood under the sharp jets and let them massage her limbs, joints and other moving parts back to life. Stepping out of the cubicle, she risked a glance in the full-length mirror, ready to wince. But what was this? Could she be mistaken? It was hard to believe, but she seemed to be in better shape, firmer in most departments, the slackness round the chin tightened, the stomach flatter.

  By the time she reached Little Venice, the first raindrops were falling, and she just made it on board as the downpour started. Undismayed, she put on the kettle and settled down to finish the curtains, telling herself it was only a shower. The first clap of thunder made her jump.

  She worked on steadily while the storm banged around her and did not notice it had stopped until she went out to inspect the boat with its new curtains in place. In bright sunlight, steam was rising from the roof. By mid-afternoon she was able to give it another undercoat. By early evening she was aching again in all the old familiar places, plus a few new ones. Clearing up to go home, Marnie remembered Old Peter’s fuel can. She switched on the fuel pump and pressed the starter button before untying the mooring ropes. The engine fired first time.

  She cruised round and found Old Peter’s mooring in the side arm off the pool. If Little Venice was a ‘good address’ in the boating world, this was the part you did not talk about, a Sargasso Sea of flotsam and jetsam, lined on one side with boats that had known better days.