Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  The cruising guide showed a lock about half a mile ahead. Rounding a bend she had a first glimpse of the balance beams and was disappointed to find no other boat in view. At least the lock was in her favour, the water at the lower level on her side, one gate hanging half open.

  She was lining up for the bank when a group of ramblers came along, about six of them, young men and women, with back-packs, in shorts and walking boots. They paused to look at Sally Ann as she drew nearer, and one of the group pointed at the lock, shouting something indistinct. Marnie made out the words “… help you …”

  She cupped her hands and called back. “Just the one gate will be fine.”

  The rambler raised a thumb, the group seized the gate and they pulled it wide with ease. Marnie piloted Sally Ann smoothly into the chamber and the gate was already closing behind her as she engaged reverse and brought the boat to a halt.

  She shaded her eyes to look up at them. “That was great, thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  It was a deep lock, eight or nine feet down. The ramblers loomed above her, tanned and fit, with muscular legs. One caught the rope from Marnie and looped it round a bollard, dropping the rest of it down to Marnie’s waiting hands.

  “Is that all right, then?” A Yorkshire intonation. “Anything else we can do?”

  “No. That’s fine. I can manage from here.”

  They set off with a wave. Marnie made Sally Ann secure on the rope, picked up the windlass and stepped along the gunwale to climb the rungs of the ladder built into the wall. Dolly sat up on the hatch and Marnie gave her a stroke as she went past and turned to mount the ladder.

  “Silly me!”

  She spoke to the cat, realising there was no ladder on this side of the chamber. She made her way back to the stern deck and stepped onto the gunwale on the opposite side of the boat. Halfway along, Marnie stopped and looked up at the wall, puzzled.

  Knowing that all locks have built-in ladders, she deduced she was looking in the wrong place. She inched her way towards the bow, climbed onto Sally Ann's roof and rotated through a complete circle. But there must be a ladder, she told herself. Every lock has a ladder.

  She cupped both hands to her mouth and called out. Her voice echoed back from the grey, wet walls of the chamber. Nobody came. The ramblers were well out of earshot.

  Back on deck, she switched off the engine. There was no way of scaling the walls, no foot-holes in the gates. The front gates were backed by thousands of tonnes of water. There was no way of pulling the rear gates open from inside the chamber. She was trapped.

  “Hallo-o-o-o!”

  No reply. It was two-fifteen. She resolved to call out every five minutes. It was a fine, sunny afternoon and she was on the Grand Union Canal, the spine of the whole waterway system. This was no desert island. Soon, another boat would come along and she would be on her way, a little wiser than when she first pulled into the lock.

  A cloud momentarily crossed the sun and the air in the chamber felt suddenly cooler. Marnie slipped into the cabin for a sweater. Dolly had stopped washing and was sitting up. Two-twenty.

  “Hallo-o-o-o!”

  A few more clouds drifted overhead. Marnie remembered a French novel about a man who imagined himself caught in the trunk of a tree, only able to see the clouds crossing the sky above him. He had concluded that that was enough to make life worth living, or something like that. She had not been wholly persuaded by the argument when she read it then and felt even less convinced now.

  The sky was darkening. A voice came into her mind …enjoy it while you can. At that moment, a raindrop hit the roof beside Dolly, followed seconds later by a rumble of thunder in the background.

  Stalker hurried back to the locks, grateful that the weather had at least turned cooler with a few sparse clouds taking the edge off the sun’s heat. He told himself Marnie would be in the lock when he reached it, that she had just been travelling more slowly than her friends on the older boats. By the time he reached the first buildings the working pair were moving very slowly past the boats lining the bank. He avoided eye contact with the crew and pressed on as quickly as he dared without drawing attention to himself.

  The lock was unoccupied and the crowd of onlookers had dispersed. On the bridge Stalker stared down at the empty stretch of water beyond. Where was she? He could not believe it was so difficult to find a boat that crawled along at walking pace on a single strip of water. The trouble was, these things were unpredictable.

  He tried applying logic. There were only three possibilities. One, she was not travelling with the working boats at all. Two, she was running behind them. Three, she had gone on ahead of them.

  First, he knew she had been travelling with the other boats because he had seen her with his own eyes. Perhaps when they met on Saturday she had given the men something and they were now going their separate ways. It horrified him to think that Marnie might have turned back and now be heading south again.

  Second, she had held back behind the working pair for some reason. What reason? He had no answer to that.

  Third, it was possible she had gone on ahead. Why? Again, he had no answer. He heard the wailing of the steam whistle. The working boats were approaching the tunnel.

  It was decision time. Stalker dredged up everything he knew about their situation. Sally Ann was travelling with the other two boats. Fact. She had been in front. Was that significant? He heard the echo of the whistle, remembered the smell of the smoke. He felt the chill air at the mouth of the tunnel … the tunnel. Of course! She had gone on ahead to go first into the tunnel. Anyone following would be engulfed in the smoke from the engine. If they were in convoy, she would have to be in front.

  He checked the map. Beyond the tunnel was another village, Blisworth. The cruising guide estimated that a boat would need over half an hour to get through. He hurried back to the car and paused before switching on the engine. Was this the right thing to do? The map showed him there were several points up ahead where the road connected with the cut. He could leapfrog from one to the other until he found her.

  It was time to report in. He grabbed his mobile, pressed buttons and opened the car window. A cool breeze fanned his face.

  “It’s me.”

  “And?”

  “I’m closer.”

  “Than what? You’ve been close for days.”

  “She’s travelling with two other boats.”

  “Can you get her alone?”

  “I will do soon. And when I catch her up?”

  “Find out what she knows about Old Peter and his stuff. Use any means you have to. Find a lonely spot.”

  Dolly was safely tucked away on her favourite chair in the saloon before the rain came down. It was a heavy shower and put a temporary end to Marnie's efforts to attract help. She pulled her wet-weather gear from the locker and laid it out on the bed. While she was making tea, the rain began to ease off.

  She put her head out through the rear doors. It was worth a try.

  “Hallo-o-o-o!” And again, just in case. “Hallo-o-o-o!”

  Some way off she heard thunder, a short rumble like a car going over a cattle grid. She waited, smelling the damp air of the lock chamber, every surface shining with rain. There was no reply and she returned to her tea. After a few minutes she thought she heard voices. Pushing open the rear doors, she went up the two steps to the deck.

  “Hallo-o-o-o!”

  The rain had almost stopped. Looking up, Marnie saw a dark shape at the lockside. She smiled at the recognition of a human form and as her eyes focused, the newcomer spoke, but not to her.

  “’Ere, come an’ ’ave a decko at this! Look what I've found!”

  The man was joined by a few others, looming against the sky. Skinheads. A host of images rushed through her mind: a magazine photo of a crane pushed into a lock by vandals, football hooligans on the rampage, gangs of thugs in a street fight. Some inner instinct told her that a politely worded request for assistance might not be met
by selfless, willing co-operation.

  “’Ullo, darlin’! What you doin’ down there?”

  The speaker seemed to have a large curtain ring in one ear and a swastika tattooed on his forehead. Marnie hesitated before replying. The situation was obvious. She was stuck at the bottom of a deep hole, unable to move several tonnes of boat, being loomed over by a bunch of people whose reputation for philanthropy was limited.

  “Got trouble ’ave yer?” said one of the others.

  Marnie knew she could not stay silent for ever and tried to think herself into a matter-of-fact, monosyllabic style of speech to suit the occasion.

  “I need the gates open.”

  The skinheads stared. The idea that they might open the paddles and bring Sally Ann up to their level was very unappealing. Marie was comforted by the certainty that they would have no idea how a lock functioned and would not know how to operate one.

  “Throw us yer key and we’ll open the paddles.”

  Marnie’s heart sank. She glanced down at the windlass lying on the deck. It was her best one, moulded in solid aluminium. The idea of handing it over brought little comfort.

  “Just a minute!”

  She dived into the cabin to fetch the spare windlass, an older cruder version. She emerged onto the deck, hoping they might have gone away, but they were still there, still looming. They were good at looming.

  “Come on darlin’! Can't wait all day.”

  Against all her instincts, Marnie swung the windlass, her anxiety that the key might fall back into the lock only matched by her anxiety that it would be caught. On the third swing she let it fly and watched it arc upwards.

  “Ow!”

  The cry of pain was followed by laughter from the ones who had not been hit, growls of annoyance from the victim. Marnie sensed that everything could become highly unpleasant. What now? she wondered.

  Stalker soon realised that Marnie was not running ahead of the working pair. The roads in and around Blisworth made it easy to check the whole area. Angry and impatient, he turned back to Stoke Bruerne and parked by the bridge. Rain clouds were threatening as he ran up to the lockside. There was no movement on the canal, and the spectators had vanished. The breeze was now turning to a wind, scudding across the water.

  He took the road south to the next bridge and checked the locks. Here too there was no traffic on the cut, no Sally Ann. He headed south again, convinced that Marnie had to be in that sector. From a lay-by he had a good view into the distance through the binoculars. Nothing. He wondered if she would be travelling with a storm coming on.

  The canal passed close to the next village south. He stopped by the road and watched as rain began to fall. Marnie had definitely parted company with the other boats. He knew she had to be somewhere in the open country ahead of him. Apart from the rain, the situation was perfect. Near a country pub he pulled off the road, zipped up his jacket, pulled on a baseball cap and set off up the towpath.

  The sky had become unseasonably dark for a summer afternoon. Another shower hit him. Stalker tried to ignore the elements. He knew he would overtake the boat if he could walk fast enough, but his progress was hampered as the towpath churned into mud.

  He caught sight of a group of ramblers up ahead, coming along the path towards him. Their hoods were up, the peaks of their caps sticking out like beaks. He pushed himself into a cluster of trees and bushes, watching the group go past, rain glistening on their legs. None looked in his direction. A blast of wind lashed him with rain. He cursed in silence, knowing he had to go on.

  Stalker strode out, elated when the rain moderated and all but ceased. His jubilation lasted less than five minutes. Ahead he saw black and white balance beams and knew the lock would slow down the boat’s progress. Then he saw the skinheads, their attention focused on the lock as he crept closer.

  Not far from the lock stood an old brick shed, open on one side. Stalker approached it cautiously and dived in, relieved to be out of sight and out of the weather. But what if the skinheads had the same idea? Reluctantly he slipped out and hid behind the building. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  A blast of wind brought rain, this time heavier than before. It also brought the skinheads. They charged down from the lock and piled into the shed. But to Stalker’s surprise they quickly piled out again and began slithering down the path, swearing at the mud. He watched them go. But something was wrong. Were they fewer in number, or was it his imagination? Had one of them stayed behind? One skinhead would cause him no trouble. He could eat one for breakfast. But his priority was not to be seen.

  His other priority was not to die of exposure. A short way off he saw a clump of trees that would give more protection than where he was now standing. Moving rapidly, he concealed himself among them, their canopy of branches keeping off the worst of the rain, but showering him in drips with every puff of wind.

  The sky was now much darker. Marnie could hear the skinheads still arguing and she did not like the feeling that decisions were being taken about her. Just then, something like spit struck her in the face and she stepped backwards. Various strategies raced through her mind. Locking herself into the cabin was the most realistic and only risked damage to the boat if they attacked it. Grabbing the boat hook to fight them off might work, but probably not for long and could have dire consequences.

  Another spit in the face, followed by another and another. The skinheads began to move. The rain was back. Great drops were splashing onto the deck, the roof, the hatch, as black clouds rolled overhead and emptied their load like bombers. Marnie saw one of the skinheads turning the paddle with a convulsive jerking movement, but the others had now vanished. She dropped into the cabin and pulled on her wet weather gear. In moments she was back on deck, ready to drive Sally Ann out of the lock. The skinhead was no longer at the paddle. The windlass hung on the spindle and the rain lashed down.

  Marnie stood for some seconds taking in the new situation. The threat from the skinheads had passed, at least for a while, but she was still stuck. The rain was beating down like a tropical storm and Sally Ann began to move around in the lock, slipping back towards the gate. Marnie automatically took hold of the rope that was attached to the bollard and held the boat steady. It dawned on her that something was not quite as it should be.

  The noise of the rain hammering on the roof was incredible. In the distance, thunder rolled again. Surrounded by sound and spray, Marnie held the rope firmly to stop Sally Ann drifting further back. But why was the boat drifting backwards? There could be no wind in a lock chamber this deep. Enlightenment came. The skinhead had partly opened one of the paddles.

  Slowly, the level of water was rising. An age went by as the boat inched upwards. Gradually they rose to where Marnie could see over the side of the lock. The rainswept country was deserted. Soon she would be able to open one of the gates and bring Sally Ann out at last. She was leaning into the cabin to turn on the fuel pump when a sound made her freeze. Were the skinheads back?

  There it was again. But it came from bushes on the opposite bank, away to her right. Marnie started the engine, secured Sally Ann on the bollard and ran to push open the gate. Behind her, the diesel was a faint throbbing, barely audible in the storm. As Marnie heaved on the balance beam, she heard the cry. She scanned the whole area. The only structure in sight was a brick shed, about thirty yards or so back along the cut on her side. With the rain easing off, Marnie accelerated out into the channel, crossing to the far side.

  “Hallo-o-o-o!” Sally Ann drifted in neutral, the engine idling. “Hallo-o-o-o!”

  In seconds came a reply, a high, frail cry. Marnie nosed Sally into the bank, swung the tiller to bring the stern in and quickly tied up to two saplings, fore and aft. She set off towards the cluster of bushes standing some way back from the canal. At her first step the storm erupted again. Lightning slashed across the sky and the rain fell harder than ever.

  Marnie struggled forward in the mud against the downpour while thunder crashed
. Despite the weatherproof clothes, her face was soaked, rain was running down her neck inside the oilskins. Her trainers turned instantly from white to brown and her feet were drenched.

  “Hallo-o-o-o!”

  She reached the bushes, tripped and half sprawled into a tangle of branches. Thunder and lightning crashed again almost together. What the hell am I doing out here? Marnie got to her feet, at once hearing a sudden sound on her left, like an animal moving in the bushes. Wary of plunging into an unknown situation, she hesitated. Thunder roared and a blast of wind blew her sideways.

  “Damn!”

  The exclamation startled Marnie, a light voice barely audible between thunder and wind. She knelt down and peered under the nearest bush.

  “Hallo!” she called and waited. Twigs lashed at her face. “Hallo!”

  “Is someone there?” The voice was incredulous, petulant.

  Marnie found a gap like the entrance to an igloo and crawled through the opening. Facing her, lying on the wet ground, was an old lady in anorak and tweed skirt, mud-stained and soaked. She stared at Marnie.

  “Where have you come from?”

  The question sounded like an accusation. Marnie wondered bizarrely if the woman was a retired school teacher.

  “I was on the canal. I thought I heard a call.”

  “You certainly did.”

  The scene was ridiculous, the two of them squatting under a bush in a thunder storm, making conversation. The old woman winced.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Of course I’m hurt. I’m not lying here for fun. I've twisted my ankle. I fell over some damn’ roots while I was trying to shelter.”

  Marnie crawled forward to look. The ankle was swollen and she loosened the laces on the walking boot. “It looks like a bad sprain. Do you think it could be broken?”

  “It wouldn't surprise me.”

  Marnie eased the sides of the boot away from the injury. “It doesn't look too good.”

  “It’ll look even worse if you remove the only form of support for my ankle.” She spoke breathlessly, pausing between blasts of wind and thunder. “I suggest you do up those laces so that the ankle is strapped. I'll be able to move more easily if my foot isn't flapping around uselessly.”