Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

Gary pulled it out of his pocket and passed it over. Griffiths inspected it. It bore the stains of oily finger marks.

  “You realise we can check with the phone company when this mobile was sold?”

  Gary stood up and rummaged in a drawer. He pulled out a slip of paper and passed it to Griffiths.

  “Receipt.”

  She looked amazed. “You keep receipts?”

  “They come in handy sometimes … tax claims and that.”

  Griffiths stood, handed the receipt back to Gary and made for the door.

  “I may need to talk to you again. In the meantime it’d be a good idea if you kept away from the chemist’s. And don’t you decide to go on any sudden holidays without letting me know, right?”

  “Sure. So … what about Sheena? What happens now?”

  Griffiths paused before mounting the steps. “I’d have thought that was obvious.”

  Ralph Lombard may some time have been a world class economist but Marnie concluded he would have made a useless commando. In the spotting drizzle she had invited him inside and grinned to herself while she prepared breakfast.

  “You know it’s been a long time since I had a guest for dinner who was still around at breakfast time. Sorry … that makes me sound like a hussy.”

  Lombard was laying the table in the saloon. “A hussy?” He feigned shock. “It’s a pity I haven’t come in my scarlet-lined cloak, and I don’t have a moustache to twirl.”

  Marnie turned slowly to face him, her expression sultry and smouldering. “Would you like … cornflakes or Weetabix?”

  “Just toast would be fine.”

  Marnie completed the table and they settled down to breakfast. She gave a progress report on the repairs.

  “So when will you be off on your travels again?”

  “Probably tomorrow if Sally Ann’s running okay.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  Marnie shrugged. “We’re taking up space in the boatyard … mustn’t outstay our welcome.”

  “That would be impossible.”

  “Even so …”

  “And I’m only just getting to know you.”

  Marnie looked serious. “Whereas I know very little about you.”

  “I thought you’d checked up on me, thought I had no secrets from you.”

  “That was just a few lines in a book. And talking of books, I couldn’t get hold of your famous ones. They said they were out of print.”

  “That’s me … out of print, out of fashion.”

  “I don’t understand. Ralph, I’ve no wish to meddle in your affairs, you know that, but seeing you again, I can’t help feeling …”

  “Curious?”

  “Concerned. But I know some things can be too painful, and it’s better to think of the future than dwell on the past.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Good.”

  Lombard looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to go, a meeting.”

  Marnie stood up and held out a hand. “Thanks for dropping in. Oh God. I mean –”

  “It’s okay, I know what you meant.” Lombard smiled tentatively. “I was just wondering …”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you be free for dinner this evening?”

  Gary locked up Garrow after Griffiths left and walked a short way along the towpath. He had a paint job to price and even though he could do it in his sleep, he found it hard to concentrate as he calculated quantities of paint and materials.

  His head was filled with questions. How could he contact Sheena? Why had Diane not told him about the training course? Why had Sheena not told him? It felt like a conspiracy, though he had to admit it was largely his fault. He had forgotten about the lost mobile.

  At one point he looked up from his measuring to see the grey-green boat passing by with Old Peter at the tiller in his Panama hat. More questions raced into his mind. Where was Gravel these days? If Gravel made one of his sudden appearances, Gary would have nothing to report. That would not be a good move. He would go and see the old man the next day.

  How would he broach the subject of Old Peter’s valuables? Gary would have to think of something.

  Lombard met Marnie at the boatyard gates and they walked to a small Italian restaurant about ten minutes away. Having dinner together for the second time in two days seemed strange, but Marnie told herself she would probably never see Ralph again and they still had things to talk about.

  The service was attentive but unobtrusive and they sat at a corner table where they could talk.

  “You know, Marnie, I’ve been thinking about what you said. You mentioned my books, the famous ones – some would say infamous – that propelled me into the public arena.”

  “I wanted to see why they made the headlines.”

  “You have to remember we were in the middle of the Thatcher Revolution. Labour had collapsed into its own private ideological civil war. People were feeling uneasy about so much change. My books spelled out what was happening in straightforward language.”

  “You became the opposition?”

  “I provided an objective commentary on the new policies.”

  “I vaguely remember a lot of fuss. I was at art school then. Your books were all the rage.”

  “The media spotlight. I did the round of TV chat shows, got serialised in the Sunday papers, became a guru.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “The establishment struck back. I’d rocked too many boats, become too influential.”

  “What happened exactly?”

  “A chair came up at my old college, a professorship. I was tipped as the hot favourite. It was just after I’d coined the term, the loadsamoney society. Words were whispered in influential quarters … I became persona non grata. The chair went to a worthy but unexciting American as part of a much-heralded brain-gain.”

  “So much for academic freedom.”

  “A question of patronage, Marnie. Once the powers-that-be had damaged my reputation they could destroy me behind the scenes. No more chat shows, no more prime-time. My next book received brief reviews. I was out of step and became untouchable.”

  “Must have been a nightmare.”

  “The worst was yet to come.”

  “Things could get worse than that?”

  Lombard lowered his voice. “My wife was diagnosed with an incurable illness and within six months …”

  “Ralph, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes.”

  A question was forming in Marnie’s mind, but she could not think how to frame it without seeming heartless and insensitive. She could hardly say, why did you wait so long before attempting to commit suicide?

  “Thanks for sharing all this with me, Ralph.”

  “You had a right to at least some explanation. I didn’t want you to think you’d just pulled some habitual drunk out of the canal.”

  “I didn’t think that.”

  “Good. I expect you’re wondering, why now? Why didn’t I try to kill myself back then?”

  Marnie said nothing.

  “Hopelessness can take time to grow. The loss of someone you love is devastating but it can numb the spirit. It took time for me to realise that everything I’d based my life on was finished. Can you understand that, Marnie?”

  “I think so.”

  “You said you felt stale, that’s why you decided to take a sabbatical when the offer of the boat came along.”

  “Yes, but, actually there was more than that. My marriage broke up a few years ago. Not quite the same thing as your experience, Ralph.”

  “Maybe not, but a tragedy nonetheless.”

  “That’s how it felt.”

  “And you tackled it by …?”

  “Throwing myself into my work.”

  “And now your sabbatical with Sally Ann.”

  “That’s part of it too.”

  Lombard laughed quietly. “You threw yourself into your work. I threw myself into … Well, what you did seems more sensible than what I did.”


  “A desperate measure.”

  Lombard was serious again. “Thanks for listening. I hope I haven't bored you.”

  “Of course not. Tell me, though, what were you trying to escape from? Was it being passed over, professional isolation? Or was it that you had nothing more to say?”

  “All but one of those.”

  “Which one didn’t apply?”

  “I still have things to say.”

  “Then why don't you just set yourself the task of saying them?”

  “It might not be as simple as that.”

  “Yes it is.” There was a hard edge to Marnie’s voice. “Just do it. It can be as simple as that.”

  “Just do it,” Lombard repeated.

  “Why not? If you have something to say, say it. It's got to be better than what you tried to do the other night.”

  “I thought drowning would be simple and relatively painless.”

  She grimaced. “It’s not a way I’d choose to go. Rats do things in the water.”

  Ralph laughed, a deep, spontaneous chuckle.

  “Shall we have coffee on the boat, Ralph?”

  “Why not? I want you to tell me more about boats. You've given me an idea.”

  They walked back to the boatyard and sat out for the last time. On the stern deck Marnie lit two small candles. In the dusk the only other light came from the windows glowing in the houses opposite. The canal looked like smoked glass.

  “So, Ralph, what's this idea you’ve had?”

  “I’m due to have a sabbatical next year. The plan is to write a book. Ever heard of the scholar gypsy?”

  Marnie delved into her memory. “A poem I remember from school … Matthew Arnold?”

  “Exactly.”

  Marnie caught the implication. “Are you serious?”

  “Why not?”

  “You … travelling around on a canal boat?”

  “So? Whatever happened to just do it?”

  “Wouldn’t you need access to libraries?”

  “Not all the time. There’d be plenty of room for books. I've got a lap-top. I can work anywhere. There must be a way of charging the batteries.”

  “You’d need a generator.”

  “There you are, then. Of course you may think that after what happened, I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a canal ever again.”

  “Nothing like that is going to happen ever again, is it, Ralph?”

  “You sound pretty confident.”

  “Absolutely.” Marnie laughed. “The scholar water gypsy …”

  “Is it so unrealistic? After all, it’s what you’re doing.”

  Marnie leaned towards him. “Promise me something. If you write that book … send me a copy?”

  “You’ll have to let me know how to get in touch with you.”

  “I’ll give you my business card.”

  “So you don't discourage me?”

  Marnie replied in a firm voice. “Just do it.”

  39

  Postcard

  Marnie had mixed feelings that Thursday morning. She went to see Peter in his office and paid him for the works. Back on Sally Ann, she checked the boat from bow ring to stern button.

  Everything mechanical and electrical had been sorted out, at least enough to get her safely home. Diesel and water tanks were full. The empty gas bottle was replaced. All fluids were topped up. The stern gland was packed with grease and the rudder post oiled.

  The store cupboards on Sally Ann were full, the cratch lockers packed with non-perishables as stand-bys for the next leg of the journey. Marnie could not imagine there would be supermarkets lining the lush banks of the Thames.

  But for all this, Oxford felt like unfinished business. Marnie tried to imagine Ralph Lombard spending his sabbatical year on a boat. Would he just do it? Perhaps she might one day receive a book through the post sent by a secretary at the publisher’s office, just another name on the author’s list for a complimentary copy.

  Peter came over to see her off and stood by as she pressed the starter. The engine fired without hesitation. They grinned as Peter pushed Sally Ann away from the bank.

  “There you go, Marnie. All ready for a fresh start.”

  The engine was beating steadily as they slipped through the water that early September morning and left the yard behind. It felt good to be getting underway again.

  Gary was lurking on the street corner, one eye on the tube station exit a hundred yards away, the other watching out for Brendan’s van along by the towpath.

  Suddenly Diane appeared. Gary legged it along the pavement to meet her halfway. As usual she shot him a quick glance without breaking stride.

  “Hi Diane.”

  “Look, Gary, you’re not –”

  “I know, I know. But this isn’t the shop. I just want you to give this to Sheena.”

  “What is it?” Diane eyed the slip of paper with suspicion.

  “My new mobile number. That’s all I’m asking, okay?”

  Diane grabbed the note and accelerated as fast as her heels permitted. Gary eased off and watched her go. Definitely not bad legs, he thought. Turning, he raced across the road and headed back to the boat. No sign of Brendan.

  He checked his mobile was switched on and climbed on board. A small scattering of mail littered the floor at the foot of the steps. Among the junk was a picture postcard showing a rocky coastline with a brilliant blue sea under a cloudless sky. The address read:

  Gary Greener,

  Narrowboat Garrow,

  Little Venice,

  London,

  England

  The greetings came from Cyprus. The message was from Sheena.

  Hiya,

  Mobile doesn’t work here for some reason, yours is switched off. Weather perfect – 38 degrees! Food good – wine better!! Going on a coach trip to the mountains. Wish you were here.

  Love, Sheena xx

  Gary told himself he had never really doubted her and it was as much his fault as hers that they hadn’t spoken. Now the new mobile would put that right.

  It began ringing sooner than he had expected. Diane must have contacted Sheena as soon as she got to work. He pulled the mobile from his pocket.

  “Hallo, darlin’. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  A gruff voice. “Let you down? It’s bloody Parcel Force has let us both down. I’ll murder the bastards. What’s this darlin’ business? You feeling all right, Gary?”

  “Oh, Brendan … thought you were … what’s with Parcel Force?”

  “They promised the parts would be here this morning. They’re not. Now they’re telling me the parcel is out for delivery, whatever that means.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means we can’t sit around all day waiting for them to turn up when it suits them. Sorry, Gary. I’ve got other work I can fit in, but it’s a one-man job. I’ll ring you.”

  Gary was stymied as far as work was concerned. He had planned to bring paint back from Harefield in the van. Without transport he was stuck. Then it occurred to him. There was something he could do.

  Marnie steered Sally Ann down the Sheepwash Channel and took the turn left towards Osney Lock. She looked back at Oxford and wondered if the roofscape included All Saints’ College where Ralph lived and worked.

  Progress through the city was slow, with boats moored everywhere. It was a good time to use the phone. She rang Jane Rutherford and left only a brief word on the answerphone to say she was in Oxford.

  She had better luck with Mrs Jolly and gave edited highlights of the journey, omitting the drowning man episode. Mrs Jolly laughed at the Hooray Henrys.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed Old Peter, have you? A sturdy man, grey-green boat, Panama hat?”

  “Let me think, yes, he seems familiar, though I don’t think I’ve seen him for a day or two. Is he a friend of yours?”

  Marnie hesitated. “Yes.”

  On the way round to the Paddington Arm, Gary moved quickly and decis
ively, confident that although he did not know exactly what question he was going to ask Old Peter, he would not be accepting no for an answer. If there were valuables hidden somewhere, he would find them.

  The grey-green boat was at its mooring, as Gary had expected. He had willed it to be there. The door was unpadlocked. He banged on it with a firm hand. There was no reply. A glance through the window of the caravan revealed it was empty.

  Gary banged again on the door of the boat. That noise would wake the dead, he thought. The idea made him feel suddenly uneasy. He pulled at the door and it swung towards him. Gary stuck his head in and called hallo. A second and a third call brought no response. Gary felt compelled to investigate. He had barely reached the bottom step when he saw the old man sprawled face down on the floor.

  “Jesus!”

  He knelt beside Old Peter, detected shallow breathing and reached for the mobile. At that moment, it began to ring in his pocket. Without hesitation he killed the incoming call and pressed three nines. A calm voice told him an ambulance would be on its way and he should wait by the boat. He made sure the old man’s collar was loose and put a pillow under his head. All thoughts of hidden valuables vanished from Gary’s mind. He was wondering how long the old guy had been lying there – he was fully clothed – when he heard the siren.

  Gary waited on the towpath. The ambulance crew soon brought Old Peter out on a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. Watching them drive off, Gary remembered the mobile. A message in the window told him he had one missed call. He pressed the button. One word stared out at him from the screen: Sheena.

  He activated call-back with a smile on his face and found himself listening to a voice he knew so well. The person you are phoning is not available. Please try again later.

  40

  River Boat

  Gary checked the mobile, plugged into its charger, as soon as he got up. He could hardly wait to try Sheena’s number again. Estimating that she would be up and about, he pressed the speed-dial button.

  “Hallo?”

  “Sheena, it’s Gary. Please don’t hang up.”