The Last Girl Guide: Diary of a Survivor

by Karen Wrighton

  The sky was magnificent in its blackness. Billowing charcoal clouds churned as they were impaled by spears of forked lightening. Sal’s barks sounded muffled, my ears deafened by the roar of the wind and earth-shaking boom of the thunder.

  Shards of light flickered, illuminating the sky like it were the ceiling of an old movie theatre, its silent-screen drama accompanied by the orchestra's enthusiastic rendition of Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture. This is how the world really is, how it has always been. To me, life has never been a series of calm, balmy days floating down the river. This violently orchestrated chaos was much more in keeping with my experience of the world. Though I don’t need the weather to remind me that the world is not perfect, this storm felt… appropriate. Sometimes even nature can’t handle the pressure. Sometimes even the sky loses it.

  I negotiated all seven locks at Stoke Bruerne, in the pouring rain and was soaked to the skin by the time we reached the bottom. I don’t know how anyone could get away with selling this jacket as waterproof.

  It was a good few miles before the next lock, but I decided to continue in the rain for a few hours anyway - I couldn’t get any wetter.

  The storm had passed by the time we reached the lock at Bridge No 97 (ten out of ten for imagination for whoever named that one). I got us through the lock at Soulbury and moored up at the Three Lock Moorings. There wasn’t much here, just a narrow towpath, which was barely visible through the overgrown vegetation. I went below and dried off, before taking Sal for a stroll along the tow path.

  I love how the air always smells so crisp and clean after a storm - like a summer salad - all watercress and cucumber. The dense blanket of cloud seemed to muffle all sound, magnifying the silence. After a storm comes the calm. Yet, as we walked on, the river began to come alive again, singing with the plop, plop, plop of rainwater falling from overhanging leaves.

  Sal, having apparently forgotten her earlier terror, trotted happily alongside me, periodically stopping to drink from puddles. She seems to prefer muddy rainwater to the bottled water that I poured into her bowl - tastier I guess. Though I doubt it is as healthy for her, puddle water is probably teeming with microorganisms, maybe even parasites.

  Still, when did any of us ever really like what was good for us? When I was around six or seven, Ma would give me a small glass of Cherry Brandy to drink at Christmas as a special treat. Though, thinking about it, I suspect her actual motivation was to ensure I slept through the annual party she used to throw for all of her drinking buddies.

  I looked forward to the Cherry Brandy, it was like sipping liquid cherry drops. To me, it was a magical potion that provided me with a soothing sense of warmth that spread from my lips, down my throat, and into my limbs. I wallowed in its power as it soothed me to slumber. I must have looked like a happy rag doll as she carted me off to my room - all gormless smile and floppy limbs.

  One year I discovered where Ma kept it, and I drank nearly half a bottle. Ma really laid into me. I got so sick she had to call an ambulance. She told them I had got into the cupboard and swallowed half a bottle of Cherry Brandy - which was true. To explain away cuts and bruises, she also told them that in my intoxicated state I had fallen down the stairs - that however, was not true.

  They believed her then, or at least it seemed as if they did, but I think something got written down somewhere, because when Ma put her hand through that door and cut her artery open, they had it all on record.

  I wonder if alcoholism is genetic. I did love that Cherry Brandy.

  Sal and I had dinner and then I took us on through the Marsworth Locks and into Tring to moor up for the night. Twenty-three locks today and not one sign of Fang or any other dogs. Things are going well.

  This evening had a bit of a chill to it, so I lit a fire in the stove. Sal and I are curled up beside it while I write to you and read my book - Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome, “The island had come to seem one of those places seen from the train that belong to a life in which we shall never take part.”

  The whole world looks like that to me now…

  26th July

  Legacy of Scars

  I explored Hell again today. I had one of my doleful days. These are the days when I give in to the dark side, hide away and wait for the earth to swallow me up. I yearn for everything to end, to shrivel to nothing like the corpses that rest, silently decaying in every home, in every town, in every country and on every continent of this dead world.

  I had days like this all the time when I lived with Ma, especially after I got sent back from the Halfpennys'. I am so damn tired, and I am killing myself trying to get to people who may not even be there. Even if they are, they could be like that man who tried to grab me, or maybe they just won’t want a teenage girl to join them. I would be just another useless mouth to feed. If I don’t join them, well, let’s face it, sooner or later I am going to come up against a ‘Fang’ or another animal intent on making me its main course, or I’ll get sick. With no one to care for me, I don’t care for my chances of surviving a second time.

  I’ve had doleful days as long as I can remember, at least since I started walking to school in first grade. I hated school; I was bullied almost from day one. Then, doleful days were quite mild, I used to sit by the window and stare off into space. My teachers told my Ma that I had my head in the clouds, didn't pay attention and was a real daydreamer, but it was my way of escaping. I used to watch the other kids playing games, laughing and teasing each other. They never wanted to play with me like that. Something about me made them wary. I was different. In truth, I couldn’t relate to any of them. I had nothing to say to them.

  As I got older, doleful days became more common. Maybe once or twice a month I would shut myself away in my room. Sometimes I would read, but mainly I just lay in bed, my head full of bad. Bad thoughts, bad feelings, and bad intentions - I even contemplated poisoning Ma at one point - did you know that foxgloves can kill?

  I planned to run away more than once. One time when I was about eight, I packed a bag and set off down the street, but I didn’t get very far. I had absolutely no idea where I was going and no one and nowhere to go to. A couple of years later I got as far as making a plan.

  I was reading Ring of Bright Water; a book about an artist who lived in a little cottage in Scotland with his pet otter whose name was Midge. I loved that book. I thought maybe I could do what he did. So I made a plan to go to the north of Scotland, find an abandoned cottage by the beach and rescue a stray dog or cat. I was going to live off the land, go fishing and beach combing like the man in the story. I chose a place called the Kyle of Lochalsh in the north-west of Scotland, mainly because I liked the way the name sounded. It means "Strait of the Foaming Loch." I had the whole trip planned, but it was around that time I joined the Guides. I didn’t have so many doleful days after that.

  Today was Hell, though. I don’t think I would have bothered to get up at all if it hadn’t been for Sal, pulling my blanket off me. We had a bit of a tug of war for a while. Eventually, she won, but only because I didn’t want the blanket ripped to pieces. I took her out on the towpath for a few minutes, fed her and then got back into bed. Sal picked up on my mood and snuggled up beside me with her sad dog face on. She watched me guiltily, through the tops of her eyes as if she felt responsible for causing my melancholy. I don’t deserve her. The poor dog is so unlucky that the only person alive around here is me. She would be much better off with someone else, someone more worthy of her devotion. Not even my own mother could stand me.

  I probably would have stayed there all day if it hadn’t been for the howling. It was a long way off, but there was no mistaking the call of a wild dog. Sal’s ears pricked, she lifted her head and looked out of the window and then back towards me. Yes, I had heard it too, but I still couldn’t be bothered to move. I had stowed the gangplank, so if it were Fang and his pack, they couldn’t get on board.

  Sal jumped down off the bunk and went to the door. She nosed the crack at the bottom
and then ran back to the bunk. How could Sal know what I knew? She couldn’t - and yet she seemed so keen to leave that I was certain she knew we would have to get off the boat at the next lock. We had to go, or we might not be able to get through the lock. Sal sat beside my bunk. She gave a single urgent bark. I ignored her.

  It was the first time she had ever barked at me. When I failed to respond, she let out a sequence of barks as she pranced on the floor like a pimped-up dressage pony. “Guess we're going north. Everyone, follow Lassie. Timmy's in the well.”

  I pulled the blanket over my head, pressing my fists against my ears. Sal ratcheted up the intensity. There was no ignoring her.

  I stomped up on deck, slamming the door behind me like a stroppy kid. Even Sal hates me now.

  I raced through more than thirty locks in ten hours and without a break. It was dark when we entered an unusually large mooring area, housing an enormous variety of vessels.

  There were a good number of narrow boats, but also a few large power boats and fancy yachts. I made a mental note to have a better look in the morning. It seemed as good a place as any to stop for the night, and I couldn’t face the thought of going through one more lock, so I found a space and moored up. I have no idea where we are and to be honest, I don't care. I am exhausted. Glum days usually leave me feeling that way. The anger I felt earlier is gone, I feel nothing now, and my mind is a black fog that dampens all emotion.

  I opened the door to go below to feed Sal. She was sitting by the door waiting for me, her muzzle clamped around a tin of Pedigree Chum. She dropped it with a clatter at my feet. Who needs words? Harper McKenzie, if you have quite finished being a Prima Donna, it’s time to eat…

  Kneeling next to her on the floor, I laughed until the tears were streaming down my face. Sal kissed them away, her tail beating a lively rhythm on the deck. I really don’t deserve her. Whoever said that diamonds are a girl's best friend never had a dog.

  27th July

  Leaving Home

  Dawn lit up the skyline, and the sun's warming rays traced the outline of the buildings with ribbons of golden light. Sal and I ate our breakfast on the deck, looking out at the beautiful panorama of the city.

  Yesterday we made such good time that we were able to moor up in Little Venice. The route takes us on through the Paddington Branch of the Grand Union Canal. If the guide is accurate, then we have only one or two days travel before we have to complete the rest of our journey on foot and walk to Whitehall. I am pinching myself as I write because I find it impossible to believe that we have got this far. Though, my muscles are eager to remind me every time I move.

  Little Venice, is the point where Regent's Canal meets the Grand Junction Canal. I doubt that it has the glamour of Venice, Italy, but it certainly has its own picture postcard charm. The banks of the canal are lined with weeping willow trees, and rising majestically behind them, like castles in the clouds, are rows of ornately decorated Regency mansions. This must have been where the millionaires once lived. Money can’t buy life.

  The sunlight glimmered on the brilliant white columns of a canal side cafe. Houseboats and barges painted scarlet, moss green and blue were moored up along the wharf. Their intriguing names were etched in bright letters on their stern and bows - "Robin Hood, "Blue Badger" and "The Scarlet Woman." A few had window boxes, which once, would have been overflowing with blooms. Today, they contained only the dried remnants of last summer's flowers and a few straggly, self-seeded blossoms, their blooms being strangled by thick tufts of grass and weeds.

  Ducks, coots, and geese swam around a small island in the centre of the waterway. The guide called it Browning's Island. It was named after the poet Robert Browning who had once lived close by. I once read a book of his poems. I liked ‘By the Fireside’ best… ‘If you join two lives, there is oft a scar.’ The verse is about great love having many consequences, at least that’s how I read it. Like, love has a dark side; great love comes with an unexpected free gift - great loss. Maybe Robert Browning was thinking about his wife, the fellow poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning when he wrote those lines. She was an invalid and practically bedridden. There was even a movie about their romance; it was called the 'Barretts' of Wimpole Street.'

  I had no idea that there was such a romantic, bohemian area so close to the centre of London and I was looking forward to continuing our journey today. According to the guide, the canal was to ‘wend its way past the striking aviary of London Zoo (designed by Lord Snowden) and the outskirts of Regent's Park,’ before entering Camden Lock, ‘known for its street markets and ‘hippy chic’’. There would be no street market to see now of course.

  The guide suggested that we ‘look out’ for Macclesfield Bridge, apparently, more commonly called ‘Blow up Bridge’ because, in 1874 a barge carrying gunpowder exploded, destroying the whole bridge and killing three of the crew. The bridge was rebuilt, but the ‘imposing Doric columns’ were put back the wrong way around. Maybe they lost the instructions, like when Ma tried to put an Ikea wardrobe together when we moved into the flat. She was almost finished; the cupboard was already glued, screwed and tacked together before she discovered she had put one piece in out of order. Consequently, the draws would not fit. However, I soon got accustomed to the absence of drawers. I just stuffed my clothes into the hole where the drawers should have been. It actually gave me more room and made it much easier to put away my underwear. I am smiling at the sudden bizarre feeling of nostalgia for my old bedroom as I write this.

  After our leisurely breakfast we cast off, and I steered Mona through Lisson Grove. We passed a row of ‘tastefully’ restored houseboats, many adapted from old iron-bottomed narrow boats. A few displayed traditional crafts and decorations. It still hits me sometimes, how some places look just the way they did before the pox. I feel sure that if I waited for a while, the people would return, smiling and gesturing to me in an attempt to sell me their ‘authentic, handmade barge jewellery’ or ‘canal boatman carvings.’

  This place must have been a bustling, hub of commerce and recreation once. Now it's scarily eerie, like a giant-sized model village, perfectly uninhabited.

  We passed by a Puppet Theatre Barge, its wooden hand-painted puppets hanging outside, their painted faces faded and flaking. Next was the London Canal Museum, its sign beckoning to tourists ‘See the great Victorian ice well’ According to the guide the museum is housed in a former ice warehouse built in 1862 for Carlo Gatti, the famous London ice cream maker. The building was used to store ice imported from Norway.

  I am so glad I found the guide book, it made the journey almost feel like a fun day out. Roll up, roll up, see the deserted barges complete with all their original features and fittings. Gain a true insight into how people used to live before the pox wiped out humanity. Special survivor discount…

  I was in a good mood today, even the locks didn’t feel so much like hard work. Maybe it’s because we are getting close to our destination. The thought is both thrilling and frightening. I have coped alone now for almost a year. In one way it will be a relief not to have to be so strong anymore, but on the other hand, I wonder if I will ever be secure enough to trust anyone else to have my best interests at heart. I don't think I could ever fully relinquish my independence.

  We navigated through the four locks at the Battlebridge Basin and headed for the Islington Tunnel, which carries the Regent's Canal Arm of the Grand Union Canal for 960 yards (878 metres) underneath the Angel area of Islington, London. It was pitch black inside, and although the roof was high for a canal tunnel, I felt that familiar claustrophobic tightening in my chest as we went in.

  We made it about halfway through before it became evident that we could go no further. The tunnel was completely blocked by two canal boats that had become wedged together. My only choice was to reverse out again. I felt a chill as we emerged from the tunnel, my cheerful mood ebbing away. We could not get any further by canal. We had to abandon Mona.

  Packing up was one of the most hea
rt-wrenching things I have done, but I had no choice, we had to make the remainder of the journey on foot.

  I decided we would walk on to Limehouse Basin, which was around six miles away. Then we could look for somewhere to camp for the night. I had packed most of what I thought we might need into my backpack, but there wasn't room for everything. Sal had to pull her weight too, so I strapped a small fanny pack around her neck and shoulders. It held enough dog kibble for a couple of days, a bowl, and Sal’s squeaky rubber ball. If it took us longer and we ran out of anything, there would be plenty of stores along the way where we could pick up extra food and water.

  Mona has been my home now for almost a year, which is pretty much the longest I have ever lived in one place. I don't usually get attached to places, I have moved home too often to feel anything but annoyance at the inconvenience of having to pack and unpack all my stuff again.

  Leaving Mona was different, the thought of never returning to sit and warm my feet beside that grimy, temperamental old stove, or eat breakfast on deck at sunrise, filled me with such sorrow that I felt physically sick. It was like saying goodbye to a friend you knew you would never see again, like how I felt when Ma burned Mr. Lou or how I would feel if I lost Sal.