by Leo McNeir
The first hundred yards or so were not too bad. In the second hundred she could feel a groove in her shoulder. Bow-hauling was not destined to become a new hobby. As she reached the first bridge a cluster of people looked down at her. Raising her head, a bead of sweat dripped into one eye. Marnie backhanded it and saw four young men leaning over the parapet. Her stomach tightened. A flashback to the skinheads in the rain.
“W-why are you doing that?” A slurred voice.
“What’s the game?” Another voice, equally imprecise.
Not a bunch of skinheads, Marnie thought. Hooray Henrys. But were they harmless? It could go either way, especially as they seemed the worse for drink. She ignored them and passed under the bridge, straining on the rope. They were watching for her on the other side.
“Is it a bet or a dare or something?” The first voice again.
She gave them her parting shot. “I’m saving up for the horse.”
Hoots of laughter. To Marnie’s relief their voices receded. She changed shoulders and tugged on the rope. She counted twenty paces before she had to stop for breath. Looking round she was dismayed to find Sally Ann nosing into the bank. There was more to this bow-hauling lark than she had imagined.
Wearily she pushed the bows away from the edge and waited until the boat had drifted out to mid-channel. Picking up the rope, Marnie took the strain and trudged on. Before she had reached the second bridge, she turned and saw the boat almost back beside the towpath. Worse, a man and woman were coming towards her arm in arm, quizzical expressions on their faces.
“Broken down?” said the man.
Marnie wanted to shout sod off! but had to draw breath to speak and thought better of it.
“No, Woodville College, experiment in surface tension … its effect on hull dynamics and steel structures at low speed.”
The couple looked at Sally Ann and nodded their understanding.
“Are you doing a doctorate?” the young woman asked.
Marnie drew another breath. “No. My doctorate was on step-growth photopolymerisation … rather elementary, of course. I wanted my post-doc research to be more challenging.”
The couple regarded Marnie in awe, sensing they had been in contact with a great mind.
Marnie pushed the boat away from the side. “Well, must get on.”
Marnie vowed that the next person who asked what she was doing would get the short version of her reply. She was taking up the slack on the rope when she heard laughter again. Advancing on her from behind came the Hooray Henrys.
“Hey, what are you really up to?”
By now Marnie’s patience had worn to the bone. Breathing heavily, she stared at them.
“What does it look like? I’ve got engine trouble, so unless one of you’s a mechanical genius, I’m lumbered with hauling my boat to the nearest yard for repairs.”
“Why’s the boat keep swinging in to the bank like that?”
It was a good question, even if slightly slurred. Marnie thought about it.
“I suppose it’s because I’ve got the rope attached to the nose ring.” She pondered. “Perhaps it’d work better if I shifted the rope further back along the handrail on the roof.”
“And had someone to steer to counterbalance the pulling,” one of the Henrys suggested
Oh no, Marnie was not going to hand Sally Ann over to a bunch of tipsy revellers who would probably crash her into the next bridge.
“Thanks for the offer, but I ought to be on my way.”
The man stepped forward and took hold of the rope. Marnie felt the first stirrings of unease. Hooray Henrys perhaps, but they could cause trouble in a pack, and she could not stand up to them alone.
She began, “Look, I think –”
“Why don’t you get back on the boat …” He squinted at the name on the bows. “… get back on good ole Sally Ann, move your rope thingy and we’ll pull you along. The boatyard isn’t far.”
Marnie was suspicious. “How do you know it isn’t far?”
“If it’s Oxford Boaters, they’re just opposite my digs.”
“But this is the long vacation. I thought the students weren’t around.”
“Postgrads … we press on to the end.”
Another added. “Especially when we’re a little behind in our work.”
It figured. “Well I –”
The man took the rope from Marnie’s hands. “You get back on board. We’ll be the horse.”
Only half-reluctantly Marnie let them pull the boat back to the towpath. She tried the engine, but it coughed and wheezed and spluttered, so she altered the position of the rope and took the tiller.
“Push away!”
The four men laid hands on Sally Ann and heaved. When she reached mid-channel they began towing, marching in single file.
One of them piped up. “I suppose this is what’s meant by being roped in.”
The others laughed, and Marnie allowed herself a smile. She found that by steering against them she could keep more or less on a straight course and idly wondered how many men it took to equal one horsepower. Another bridge came into view, and Marnie could see people leaning against the parapet watching the strange convoy draw nearer.
She heard voices from the bridge and then a strange sound like the moaning of the wind. It rose in pitch and gathered strength, and Marnie realised she was listening to the song of the Volga boatmen.
“Yo heave-ho … yo heave-ho …”
The Henrys were chanting as they pulled, and any hope Marnie might have entertained of making an inconspicuous entry into the city of the dreaming spires was thrown overboard. Laughter broke out from the bridge followed by sudden movement. More young men clattered down onto the towpath and took up the task of hauling the boat on her way.
So it was that Marnie and Sally Ann completed their journey to the heart of Oxford amid hilarity and bonhomie, propelled by the most unlikely crew ever to handle a narrowboat on the waterways.
36
Oxford
“Mm … oh dear, oh dear …”
Marnie looked down in anguish at the back of the mechanic’s head as he poked about in every corner of Sally Ann’s engine compartment. She knew the oh dears would add up to an expensive total and that he would soon be doing the good news – bad news thing.
She had awoken that Monday morning moored a short step along the canal from Oxford Boaters, where the Hooray Henrys had brought her the previous evening.
After some minutes and several more oh dears, Peter Truscott extricated himself from the engine.
“Well, d’you want the –”
“Bad news first,” Marnie interjected.
“New fuel injector nozzles.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Also …”
“Is this the good news bit?”
“No. It’s your electrics. One battery is probably on the way out and your wiring could do with improvement.”
“Meaning?”
“If it was my boat, I’d want it completely rewired.”
“How long would it –”
He was shaking his head. “Not feasible. First, I haven’t got the time, second, I haven’t got the manpower, third, you wouldn’t want to be stuck here waiting while I fitted the job into the schedule.”
“But I wouldn’t want to be lurching from boatyard to boatyard all the way back to Little Venice, breaking down every five minutes.”
“No, and that’s the good news.”
“I was beginning to wonder.”
“I can do the nozzles and sort out the batteries.” He looked back at the engine. “Maybe …” Marnie waited in silence. “I could tidy up the wiring, bring the isolator switch panel inside.”
They agreed on a modest programme that Peter could fit in over a couple of days. He went off to his office and returned with the battery charger and a hook-up to connect Sally Ann to mains power during her stay. He also brought a set of keys.
“We don’t usually let people stay on
their boats, but as you’ve got nowhere else to go …” Holding up the keys, he pointed towards the two large black-painted gates that gave access to the yard. “This is for the Yale lock. The big one fits the deadlock. Make sure it’s turned twice for security. You’ll be okay here. You can come and go as you please, but at night there’s no-one else around on this side of the canal. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
Gary’s mate, Brendan, was not best pleased. They were sitting in the van on double yellow lines opposite the entrance to the tube station, watching out for Sheena. The trouble was, they should have been battling through the Monday morning traffic on their way to a job. The owner had promised a bonus if the work could be completed before Wednesday and Brendan was counting the minutes.
Brendan suddenly pointed. “Look, there she is.”
Gary was half out of his seat before he spotted the girl. “Nah, that’s Diane, you plonker. It’s the girl she works with.”
They watched Diane walking briskly along the pavement.
Brendan checked his watch. “Well what time does she usually get in to work?”
“About now.”
With Brendan so fidgety, Gary feared he would drive away at any second. He opened the van door.
“I’ll go and wait by the exit so as not to waste time when she comes out.”
Brendan wound down the window. “Just a quick hallo and fix a time to see her, right?”
“Sure.”
A few minutes went by before the next load of passengers came up the steps. No Sheena. When the last person rushed out, Brendan called across the pavement.
“Come on, Gary! We gotta go.”
“Just wait for the next train, just one more. She’s bound to be on that one. It’ll only be a minute.”
It was almost three minutes. Brendan was drumming his fingers on the wheel when he spotted the traffic warden. “Gary!” He yelled and pointed down the street. “It’s lovely Rita. We go … now!”
Marnie spent the day wandering round Oxford visiting bookshops, galleries and museums. She bought some postcards and went to a café to write them. It was in the café that something strange happened.
A waitress had come across to clear the table. As she bent down to gather up the crockery, she hesitated momentarily, her face close to Marnie’s shoulder. It was odd, but Marnie had the distinct impression that the waitress had sniffed.
She ordered a cappuccino and a sandwich and went to the toilets. She checked herself in the mirror: hair was fine, a discreet touch of eyeliner, a light sheen of lipstick, nothing smudged, nothing smeared.
On leaving the café she posted her cards and went back to the boat. It hit her as soon as she pulled open the doors and stepped down inside: that smell. Marnie had become so accustomed to it, she was unaware it pervaded the atmosphere on Sally Ann and followed her in diluted form wherever she went. The waitress had been literally sniffy because of Marnie’s individual perfume – eau de diesel. Or should that be odour diesel?
Marnie could not wander round one of the most beautiful cities in the world smelling like an oily rag. She dragged her clothes from the locker and sorted everything into two piles on the bed. With a handful of coins, she headed for the laundry room, leaving her clothes revolving in soap suds, as she set off into town.
On her return she placed the bags from a small boutique in Little Clarendon Street in the cratch, the furthest point from the engine. Having piled all the washed clothes into the tumble drier, she made a pot of tea and took a mug out to Peter. He was working at the other end of the yard, kneeling in the stern of a short trail-boat. It was sitting on its trailer on the slipway, and Peter was showering the air with sparks from a welding gun.
Back on board, Marnie tried on her new outfit. The trousers were pale blue loose-weave cotton, tied at the waist with a white cord. The top was in soft white cotton with a scoop neck and short sleeves, and it hung loosely just below the waist. It was the first time that summer that she had even been inside a clothes shop.
That evening she would eat out on deck to celebrate the new clothes.
It had been a frustrating day, especially for Brendan, who was quietly seething as he drove back into London. Beside him in the van, Gary was able to look on the bright side. They may have been held up with their job because the spare parts they needed had not arrived, but at least he would now be back in time to see Sheena when she left work.
Just along the street from the chemist’s was a café. Gary sat at a pavement table where he could keep the shop in view and settled down to wait for the quarter of an hour till closing time.
Promptly at five thirty-two, Diane came out alone and began her rapid walk to the tube. Gary leapt up and blocked her way.
She spoke without hesitation. “Have you talked to her?”
“I haven’t even seen her. She hasn’t come out of the shop yet.”
Diane frowned. “Not Sheena … Anita Griffiths, the police.”
“Griffiths can wait.”
“I’m not sure she can.”
“Look, Diane, I’m waiting to see my girlfriend – supposed girlfriend – right? I’m not here to talk about the police.”
“But you haven’t talked to them, have you?”
“Not yet. I’ve been busy. Where’s Sheena?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She didn’t show up for work today.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“’Course I asked. Mr Pillbrow just said she wouldn’t be back for a while, if at all.”
“Why was that?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What did he mean, if at all? Is that what he said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Gary, Mr Pillbrow’s the boss-man. I can’t interrogate him. Now if you’ll let me pass, I’ve got a train to catch.”
“What about Sheena?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” She side-stepped him and walked off, turning back with a parting shot. “You ought to contact the police, Gary.”
Her remark made people sitting at the café tables look up in surprise and curiosity. Gary bowed his head and walked away. He felt guilty, but he did not know why.
Marnie was humming to herself as she prepared supper, a feta salad. It had been a good day. The boat was aired. All her clothes were clean, dry and odourless, packed in black plastic bags in the cratch. Work was in hand to cure Sally Ann’s engine problem. It was a fine evening. She was wearing her new things and looking forward to settling down with her notes to write up the logbook. What could be better?
Music played softly on the radio while she ate out on deck. Dolly made herself comfortable on the lid of the gas bottle container, folded her paws and closed her eyes, the perfect companion.
After the meal Marnie sat in the saloon with a glass of wine, while Dolly curled up on the opposite chair. A joss stick was burning, just like her student days, scenting the air with sandalwood. She read through the notes in the logbook and began writing up the latest instalments of the journey, becoming so absorbed that she was surprised to look up from her writing to discover that dusk had come down.
She lit the oil lamps and went out on deck to enjoy the quiet of the evening while the globes warmed, leaving the interior bathed in a dim half-light.
Marnie leaned over the tiller. On her side of the canal the boatyard was in darkness. Stars were beginning to appear between bands of cloud, and lights were coming on in the houses on the opposite bank. Somewhere close by she heard a faint splash. A fish had jumped, rippling the still surface of the water.
She stepped down from the boat, gazing across the canal, remembering that one of the Hooray Henrys had his lodgings over there. She did not notice the movement in the shadows.
What happened next lasted no more than a few minutes, but to Marnie it felt like an age. Turning back to the boat, she heard anot
her splash close at hand, but this was no perch jumping. Something big had hit the water. She spun round and saw it at once. Already too far from the bank to be reached by hand, someone was in the canal, sinking in the murky water.
Marnie raced to Sally Ann and grabbed the boathook from the roof. She sprinted back and lunged at the body. The brass end with its point and hook came down hard on her target and she heard a groan as it struck. Praying that she had not harpooned the person she was trying to save, she twisted the handle of the pole in an effort to hook onto him before he could vanish below the surface. Kneeling on the ground she pulled hard on the shaft, tugging him towards her.
Every second felt like an hour until finally she had the man within reach. She seized his clothes, pulled him nearer and held his head clear of the water. All attempts to drag him out were futile. Although alive, he was unconscious, a dead weight. She bellowed for help as loudly as she could.
Panting from her exertions, she tried to think straight. She was squatting on the canal bank with an unconscious man in the water, possibly seriously hurt, certainly in need of urgent medical attention. There was no way she could get him onto the bank, no way she could leave him while she ran for her mobile.
Marnie stared at the face, its features indistinct in the gloom. “Can you hear me?”
A groan. She leaned closer to speak into his ear. He smelled of mud, oil … and alcohol.
“Can you give me your arm?”
No reaction. Again she yelled across the canal, again the houses ignored her.
Marnie took a deep breath, gripped the man’s clothing in clenched fists, summoned all her strength and strained every sinew. After an eternity of struggling, she slumped to her knees, gasping and exhausted.
Alone in the boatyard, marooned in darkness, she was close to weeping with frustration and anger. The words ran through her head … darkness … boatyard … Her breath quickened. It was a boatyard … with a slipway. The slipway!
Raising herself to a squatting position, she took hold of an arm and began duck-walking along the bank. Absurdly, it made her made her think of bow-hauling Sally Ann. Then suddenly she tripped over an unseen mooring ring and went sprawling forward, her chin hitting the dusty concrete. Still holding on, she brushed off the grit and picked herself up, feeling the way along the canalside.