by Edward Docx
‘No problem, mate,’ Insanity affirmed. ‘Not strictly fucking supposed to because of the fucking restaurant on the quay where the boats leave from. They like to do the nosh for special occasions and such. But if my fucking missus kicks up – just tell her I said. I’ll be there to sort her out if there’s any trouble. Fucking cow.’
‘Thanks for that.’ I nodded.
‘No fucking problem, Jazz mate, anytime. Fucking pleasure to have an interested fucking audience for once.’
‘One more?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
I slipped forward off the stool and bought both Insanity and Roy Junior another drink.
‘Nothing for yourself?’
‘No. Sadly not.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m on the job tonight,’ I winked. ‘Bit on the fucking side.’
‘Nice.’
‘Fucking nice.’
He smirked. ‘You’d better fuck off then.’
I tactfully negotiated the length of the back bar over to the far side where – beneath a cupreous and nicotine-stained ceiling and against a tile and flock-paper mural of subtle algae brown and emboldened mustard yellow – Roy Junior was trying to cheat back the money he had already lost at dominoes. Seemingly glad of the distraction, he stood carefully to take the offered pint, swayed a second, nodded, stuck out his tongue, winked slowly, swayed some more … and then, like a detonated tower block, sagging at the knees with his arms flailing weakly by his side, he crumpled from the waist, summarily upending the table as he fell. The immediate aftermath of his disintegration seemed to happen in slow motion: there was the sound of splintering wood, a sudden sundering of joinery and glue, crisps and beer mats flew like so many oddly weighted Frisbees, bottles toppled over and over again, then bounced across the carpet; glasses thudded to the ground, mobile phones slapped against tiles, dominoes hurled themselves suicidally into the void; walls, floor, shoes, shirts, trousers and (in a couple of cases) hair became instantly sodden as vast floods of Pride sprayed and splattered and surged and sluiced in all directions; a fistful of glowing cigarettes cartwheeled through the air; some of Roy’s friends dived one way, others jerked the other, one smashed his shin against the newly protruding table leg, one lost his balance as his hand slipped on the freshly-doused wall; a wet ten-pound note was rent in two by a thrashing boot that dug desperately for purchase in the oozing bog. For a second nobody moved. A fine rain of cigarette ash settled gently on the devastation. Then Duncan lolloped into view and lowered his head to lap up a few pints and help himself to the nuts.
Oh, Grand Union Canal – blossom-strewn Danube of my blameless dreams. How I ache for thee! Thy languid pools where nymphs do bathe; thy bowery banks where naiads bask; thy sweet waters where at dusk the unicorn and aurochs sup. Oh, Grand Union Canal, my cradling Tigris and Euphrates both, my shimmering dove-sung Jordan, my glorious queen-kissed Nile! Hie me swift to thy hopeful bosom …
At 16.25 hours on a cloudless Sunday afternoon, the first in May, I swung cheerily on to Blomfield Road and – straw bag in hand – sashayed towards the rudely magnificent entrance of Desmond’s Canal Boat Trips. A line of front-garden saplings bowed like loyal pages as I passed and here and there the branches of the trees curtsied like ladies in waiting. Beneath a lapis lazuli sky, with all around the sounds of summer tuning up, I could not help but anticipate that the afternoon would become a glowing success.
I was close upon the entrance when Madeleine appeared – coming out. ‘Hello,’ I said, friendly and cheerful as the gentle air.
‘Hi,’ she replied.
I must have been beaming or something because she looked at me quizzically for a second before steering us out of the momentary awkwardness: ‘Hey, isn’t it a beautiful day? And hot too. Guess what: I just asked them and they said that it’s OK to bring a bottle so I’m going to get a couple of glasses from my flat and something out of the fridge. Hang on, I’ll be two seconds.’
‘OK. I’ll wait here.’
She hastened across the road. She looked … I don’t know … heart-dissolving. She was wearing a white shirt unbuttoned two down at the neck and an above-the-knee cotton skirt with her leather-thonged sandals. But it wasn’t just the clothes. It was her manner: unregarding of herself, in no doubt, seemingly heedless of the quagmire of degeneration that squelched all about her and yet impetuously, sharply, riskily alive – assuming, requiring, betting heavily upon the very best from the day and its many grubby personnel. (Always, whenever she wished, Madeleine could become that girl in the frayed straw hat, certain to coax down the chivalrous instinct somewhere languishing in the dusty attic of even a bad man’s better nature.)
I waited for her in the restaurant on the wharf, idly looking at the menus and wondering to what extent the seafood theme was offered as an ironic commentary on British canal culture. There was no sign of Insanity, but a fifty-year-old woman, whom I took to be his ‘missus’, was bustling a gaudily clad family on to the boat. I thought I might as well pay for our tickets and crossed over to the counter just in time to beat a pandemonium of intrepid Japanese tourists. I was collecting my change when a familiar voice whispered in my ear.
‘Hey Jazz, I’ve reserved the best fucking seats up at the fucking front for you, mate.’ Pause. Then, in an even quieter hiss, ‘She’s a fucking dream by the way. Makes me want to fucking buy a bunch of fucking flowers spur of the fucking moment or something.’
Before I could say thanks, he was gone.
‘You Desmond’s friends?’ asked the bustling woman, officiously.
‘I’m not sure. I think so.’
‘Well, the chairs up at the front are yours if you want them – otherwise you can sit at the back with me.’
I explained that I was waiting for somebody and she said not to worry, they wouldn’t leave without such a fine looking young lady and that she would send her through. So I climbed across the first boat – Desmond No. 2– moored in tight against the bank, and jumped lightly down into Desmond No. 1. Behind me, someone shouted: ‘When he puts his foot down he can get her up to four miles an hour.’ I caught sight of Insanity himself – blue-peaked sailor’s cap and striped shirt, lurking like the ghost of Captain Ahab at the back.
The narrowboat was indeed narrow – more or less four chairs wide, with a solid roof supported on poles, but with sides and front wide open to the fresh air. I walked carefully towards the bow – past families, pensioners, more tourists, a school outing, a young couple with their baby and a trio of bikers steadfastly leathered up despite the sun. The last two chairs – side by side in the rounded prow – had a piece of A4 paper on them saying ‘Reserved’. I picked it up and folded it into my back pocket. (A close shave vis-à-vis giving away my preparations: in such ways do the gods like to piss on mankind’s little party.) Two chubby ducks waddled smartly along the towpath, took to the cloudy water in the way only ducks can and set off at full tilt towards the opposite bank on a sudden and unknowable errand.
‘Job done,’ she said, holding aloft a bottle of white wine, as she excused her way past the bikers. ‘Hey, excellent: do we get to sit at the front?’ She stepped past me. ‘Thanks for sorting the tickets.’
‘No problem.’
At the back, Insanity turned the key and the engine started up – a regular, comforting, low-register chug.
‘It’s pretty low in the water, isn’t it?’ she said, as we sat down.
I nodded: ‘If you stick your hand over the side there’s only about six inches clearance.’ I was going to add a footnote about how, when the canals were privately owned, the tolls were paid according to the weight of cargo, which, in turn, was measured by how deep in the water the boat was sitting. But mercifully, the announcer’s voice came over the speakers: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, hello – my name is Daphne and your skipper today is Desmond. Although the canal is only five foot deep and we travel at only three miles an hour, I am required to inform you that life rings are to be found on the roof. Also, please coul
d I ask you to keep legs, arms and fingers inside the boat as we have been known to bump into things now and then and we don’t want you losing any limbs.’ The microphone clicked off and Daphne herself came down to the front, climbed on to the empty chair behind us and administered a firm push off with her foot.
Carefully, Madeleine placed two glasses – a whisky tumbler and a flute – down on the interior ledge beside her seat. She pulled out a small penknife attached to her keyring and selected the corkscrew function. Holding it up as though it were a magic symbol, she looked at me with mock solemnity. ‘Shall we start drinking straight away?’
‘I think that would be a great idea,’ I affirmed. ‘In fact, I was going to say, but you dashed off – I brought a bottle as well, just on the off chance. So we’ve got two.’
‘Oh good. I noticed your basket thing. There’s nothing better than drinking in the afternoon. Especially when it’s sunny. Shall we start with yours or mine?’
‘I think we should get started with yours while it’s still cold and have mine on the way back.’
‘OK. Here – you hold the glasses for a moment.’
She passed them over and I did as ordered. I couldn’t help but notice that there was not a trace of nervousness in her voice. In the company of a virtual stranger, she was totally relaxed. She bent over, slipped her feet from her sandals, jammed the bottle between her insteps, twisted in the corkscrew and heaved out the cork. She grinned: ‘Now we’re sorted.’
‘Pour away.’
Glasses charged and bottle stowed, Madeleine insisted that we clink. Then she settled back, lifting her legs so that she could put her feet up on the ledge in front of her.
‘So – any ideas which way we go?’
‘Up there,’ I indicated straight ahead, ‘just a little way and then left at Browning’s pool into the Regent’s Canal.’
‘Browning’s pool?’ She turned her head enquiringly.
‘Yeah, it’s the sort of mini-lake-kind-of-pond-area – you can see it from the bridge when you go towards Paddington.’
‘Oh right, yeah. Near that little memorial garden place.’
‘That’s it. Robert Browning used to have a house up there. In fact, he’s the one who first came up with the name “Little Venice”. Because it reminded him of –’
‘Venice.’
‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat. Already I felt I knew too much. Why, oh why did I do this to myself? ‘He used to have a summerhouse on the tiny island and sit there with Elizabeth, his wife,’ I added weakly. ‘And write his poems.’
The speakers clicked and the announcer’s voice came on: ‘The area we are now entering is called Browning’s pool, after Robert Browning, the poet, who used to have a summerhouse on the little island you can see to your left …’
I drank some more wine and then frowned for no reason.
‘You seem to know rather a lot.’ She extended a lower lip to blow a stray strand of hair from her forehead. ‘Have you been anxiously reading local guides or something?’
Ouch, I thought. Ouch.
‘I’ve been doing nothing else for weeks now. I get up at six and cycle furiously to the British Library where I pore over canal-related history books until dusk every day. Then I go to Grand Union night schools Sunday and Tuesdays. All so I can impress newcomers to the area.’
‘Oh … I see. Well you’re not doing badly in your studies. You sound like you might be able to do some official tour-guiding if you stick at it. Something to fall back on anyway – if the calligraphy fucks up or your hands get cut off or whatever.’ She nodded thoughtfully and produced another soft pack of unfamiliar imported cigarettes from her breast pocket. ‘Want one? They’re delicious. Pure nutritional goodness. I picked them up at a camel station in Tajikistan.’
I found it impossible to tell if she was joking. She gave no hint either way. ‘No thanks,’ I declined. ‘Not yet – later though – maybe.’
‘Fair enough.’ She tapped one out for herself and lit it with a lighter. ‘And do all newcomers get the chance to go out on a barge trip so that they can be suitably induced and impressed? I have to say, I think it’s very community-minded of you.’
‘Well, I prefer to concentrate on old men, actually. It’s the least I can do. They move into the area and they just look so … so lost.’
She smiled.
We continued to talk our way down the Regent’s Canal, through the dankness of the Maida Hill tunnel, past the Widewater turning pool where the barges used to deliver their cargoes to the old coal power station and where a couple of men were hunkered silently over their motionless rods. After a while, with the London sun still bright and self-confident, we found ourselves drifting along the back of Regent’s Park proper, the gardens of Grove House to our left and the elegant John Nash villas to our right … Her sense of humour, I freely admit, was a little disconcerting: as dry as the desert in the grip of a two-hundred-year drought. In fact, her self-assurance in general was having a curiously powerful effect: somehow unnerving me and making me more relaxed both at the same time. Perhaps, I thought, it was something to do with her having travelled so much.
That said, everything was going well – almost too well. Certainly too well for me to rend the mood asunder with blundering, pitiful arsehole questions like, ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ or ‘Can I just butt in to establish whether or not you are single at the moment?’ or ‘Am I right in thinking that you are not going out with somebody – probably a man; or is it that you are seeing someone – probably a man – as we speak? And if so, how long has this been going on and what – if you don’t mind me asking – are your long-term expectations?’ No way. I just couldn’t. Not with her so close and real. So I put it off. All the way past the aviary and the zoo and the floating Chinese restaurant and right up until we were safely docked in Camden. We talked and joked and began to get a little less sober and I put it off.
‘But I don’t really want to go to Australia. I really don’t. I mean, take a look around …’ I gestured vaguely as if to prove the point. ‘There’s no need for me to go to Australia. Australia is coming here.’
Having wandered through the Australian throng at Camden Market, and having decided against buying any aromatherapy products or ethnic rugs off the ever-cheery Australian vendors, we had settled for interim drinks prior to the return voyage. And so we were now sitting in what could only be described as an Australian theme pub, listening to what sounded suspiciously like Australian rock music, having just been served by two genial Australian bartenders who, when Madeleine had attempted to order the drinks, had taken it upon themselves to enact an impromptu (but oh so amusing) piece of comic mini-theatre – one elbowing the other aside to serve her first, while the other then ducked between his legs to pop up in front of the first, who in turn clapped his hand over his rival’s mouth and dragged him out of the way et cetera ad nauseam et cetera. Very funny, the Aussies.
I took a tentative sip of my glass of Australian wine. ‘I mean, there are millions and millions of Australians in London – everywhere you go. In fact, London is more or less the same as Australia. Admittedly without the kangaroos or the didgeridoos, thank God – but still – all over the city – today, now, as we speak – people are preparing for barbecues. Even my Cypriot friends on the Edgware Road have started asking me if I “want a few tinnies, mate” to take home with my olives.’ I sighed. ‘Oh, we made a brave effort to isolate them, to dump them on the other side of the world, but we have to face facts: it hasn’t worked. They are all coming back – one by one – to have their revenge. In fact, Australia must be practically deserted.’
She laughed. ‘I still think you should go.’
‘But I’m European. I don’t like marsupials. I like history, literature, music, the dynastic struggles of inbred monarchies. That kind of thing.’
‘Well, you are missing out. Because it is a beautiful place.’ She exhaled a blue arc of cigarette smoke. ‘Have you ever been diving?’
‘No �
� I haven’t.’
‘Didn’t think so.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You don’t look like a diver.’
‘What do divers look like?’
‘They’re slightly sort of … you know, cooler.’
‘Slightly cooler?’ I pretended not to be hurt.
‘A diver wouldn’t have a picnic basket.’
‘I borrowed it …’
‘Really?’
‘Off a professional diver friend of mine who lives upstairs. It was one of many possible choices. He has a comprehensive picnic basket selection.’
She smirked. ‘All I am saying is that maybe you should start getting out more. Go see Australia. Go see the Great Barrier Reef, because you really don’t know what you are talking about. Come on: you have to see stuff like that. Think about it: it used to take months to get round the world, not to mention, only a hundred years ago, the diseases, the disasters, all the dangers, human and natural – I mean fuck, just getting to Scotland used to be an epic struggle. But now it’s a few hours, a few hundred dollars and you can be anywhere. How can you not love that? How can you not take advantage of that? You’re just being parochial and – you know – small-minded. What’s the phrase? A life without exploration is not worth living.’ She shrugged. ‘Something like that. In any case, you never know, it might broaden your horizons.’
Ouch again. ‘You are talking about the place. I am talking about the people,’ I said.
‘We can talk about the people if you like.’ She made a thoughtful face. ‘I, for example, am an Australian. Born and bred.’
Ouch ouch ouch.