‘Why? Thinking of Ella Mae II?’ asked Noel, bringing up the mugs.
‘No – I had another name in mind.’
‘What?’ Becky asked.
‘The Rebecca C. But that’s a bit presumptuous.’
Becky swallowed. ‘Nobody calls me Rebecca,’ she said. ‘I hate that name.’
‘Then the Becky C.’
‘Doesn’t sound right for a boat,’ she protested.
‘Hello there, everybody.’ It was Liza Forbes, out walking a determined mile along the towpath, trying to get fit again.
‘Liza! Come aboard. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s just made.’
The head teacher hesitated. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said.
Mike helped her aboard, guiding her into a chair. Becky hopped up and sat on the edge of the cabin roof. She looked at Mike. ‘Perfect! I have just the name for you,’ she said. ‘The Liza F. We’re renaming a narrowboat that Mike has just bought,’ she explained.
‘After me?’ The head teacher’s thin face coloured. ‘But. . . .’
‘Sounds absolutely perfect,’ Noel said.
Mike rubbed his face. ‘That’s quite uncanny,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you know what her original name was? Back when my granddad and my dad were working on her? Her name in these old days was the Eliza Forbisher.’
‘Why not call her that again?’ said Liza. ‘It’s a beautiful name.’
‘And her original identity,’ added Becky. ‘She has come back to you, completing the circle of ownership. Why not call her exactly as your grandfather did? The Eliza Forbisher. I love that name.’
Noel headed down the cabin steps.
‘Where are you off to?’ Becky called after him.
‘If we’re naming a boat, it’s champagne we should be using,’ his voice floated up from the cabin. ‘It’s too much to hope that the fairies have left us one of these . . . but I think they hid a Merlot in my shirt drawer.’
‘Not the usual place,’ Becky said sotto voce to Mike.
‘Indeed no,’ said Noel, emerging with the bottle. ‘But a bad fairy must have found my usual place. Last time I went to check, a bottle of Shiraz had disappeared.’
‘Maybe they took it back again?’ offered Becky.
Noel’s eyes crinkled. ‘If they did, they left the screw cap behind,’ he said.
‘You can’t trust fairies, nowadays,’ Mike sighed sadly.
The wind from the Ribble Estuary little more than a cooling breeze, the two of them ran companionably, shoulder to shoulder. No longer competing to see who could leave the other struggling in their dust.
‘I can’t believe Christine has offered me my old job back,’ said Kathy.
‘Why not? She knows what a brilliant teacher you are. Everybody was talking about the performance you got out of the kids in the school play.’ David glanced down at Kathy’s slender figure, running easily at his side. ‘You’re building up a biggish fan club,’ he smiled.
She pulled a face at him.
‘It’s good to have you back,’ he said quietly. ‘You have no idea, the gap you left in my life when you went storming off.’
‘Slinking off,’ she corrected. ‘With my tail between my legs – because you left an even bigger gap in mine.’
‘Never again,’ he said. ‘Either of us. Promise me that.’
‘I promise.’ She eased in front of him, to let some cars pass, then dropped back alongside. ‘I’ve been thinking. Sally’s voice. That’s not just a little girl’s voice she has – there’s real quality there. Maybe that’s the form Beth’s musical genes are going to take. Maybe she will turn out to be a singer. You should steer her towards taking singing lessons – unless it’s still too early for her voice to have settled down. Even so, she can still benefit from some sort of training . . . you should think of getting her into a really good local choir. Let her find her feet in making music, and standing on a stage in front of people. Lay the foundations.’
Kathy glanced up. ‘Look, I know I’m talking out of turn,’ she apologized. ‘But what do you think?’
David ran for a few moments, then smiled down.
‘I think it should be as much your decision, as mine,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
He caught her arm, and stopped her. Turned her gently towards him.
‘You’ve been back a month,’ he said quietly. ‘It has been one of the happiest months of my life. It’s probably too early, but I’m asking you to marry me. Then we can both sit down with Sally, and persuade her.’
Kathy stared up at him. ‘Marry you?’ she asked faintly.
‘Sort of. Is that too terrible to consider?’
Kathy glanced over the fence, at the mounds and rushes of the Mere.
‘Last time I was here, I was crying my eyes out,’ she said.
‘Does that mean yes, or no?’
‘It mean yes. As in yes, please. As in yes, forever.’
Cars hooted as they stood locked together, kissing. Neither of them heard, nor saw, the smiling occupants.
Finally Kathy pushed him away, and turned to hare back into Southport.
‘Rats!’ he sighed. ‘Here we go again. . . .’
It took him almost a mile to catch up. ‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’ he panted.
‘Back home, to tell Sally,’ Kathy said.
And poured on even more speed.
‘This had better be important, Liza. Oh. . . .’ Henrietta stopped inside the door of Liza’s study, her eyes fixed on the sealed letter that was lying in front of the head teacher.
‘Is it?’ she asked.
Liza nodded. ‘I’ve asked the other two to send the children out for an early playtime,’ she said quietly. ‘They should be here at any minute. . . . Ah, the bell.’
She smiled as the children rampaged out of the old building, their clamour receding down the school corridor and fading into the distance of the playground outside. Most of Liza’s life had been spent with that background noise. She wouldn’t have changed a single moment of it.
‘I want everybody here,’ she said. ‘The whole team.’
‘Absolutely,’ said a coal-stained Henrietta, eyes fixed on the letter.
A gentle knock on the door, then it opened. It was Pop, with Becky at his heels. Their eyes too were drawn to the letter on Liza’s desk. Pop sighed, waved Becky through, then closed the door gently behind them.
For a couple of minutes, everybody stared at the letter.
‘Well, you open it,’ Henrietta said. ‘You’re head teacher.’
‘You open it,’ said Liza. ‘You’re Chair of the Trust.’
‘My hands are mucky.’
Liza reached into a desk drawer and brought out a slender letter-knife. She slid its blade carefully into the top of the envelope, then firmly cut across the edge of the envelope flap. With hands that shook, she laid down the knife and reached inside to draw out two folded sheets of A4 paper.
‘There’s usually only one,’ muttered Henrietta.
Gathering her courage, Liza eased opened the sheets. Her eyes skimmed down the first sheet, where the Ofsted letter heading was very prominent.
‘Well?’ asked Henrietta, in anguished tones.
Silently, Liza slid the Ofsted letter across the desk.
‘Tell me,’ Henrietta whispered, face white beneath the coal dust.
‘Outstanding,’ Liza said quietly. ‘Outstanding, once again. We did it!’
Henrietta sank weakly into a chair. A single tear left a white channel down her plump cheek. ‘This school is blessed,’ she said quietly. ‘Old Cluny sits up on his cloud, working all our strings. He found us Becky, he brought us Kathy, when we needed her most. And, together, we did it somehow. The precious independence of his school is safe again – with a grade far higher than any other local school has got.’
‘What’s on the other sheet?’ Becky asked. ‘The hand-written note.’
Liza glanced down. ‘It’s from the Chief Inspector,�
�� she said. ‘Hoping that I’m fully fit again.’ She looked up. ‘How is Kathy?’ she asked, thinking of the missing team member, now that the result was through.
‘She’s got her old job back,’ said Becky. ‘And she’s getting married in the summer. It’s all come good for her as well.’
‘I’m glad,’ sighed Liza.
‘Me too,’ said Pop. He turned to Henrietta. ‘Crisis is over,’ he said. ‘You’ve found my successor in Becky. Liza’s back in post. Can I retire now? Please?’
‘NO!!!’ Henrietta, Liza and Becky shouted, in chorus.
‘Oh, all right then,’ said Pop. ‘I’ll carry on.’
‘Hello? Anyone in?’ Becky had tracked Mike down to the one boat in the yard which had no name.
His tousled head emerged through its cabin door.
‘Becky! What a nice surprise,’ he said. ‘Come aboard and I’ll show you round. I’ve been working on her all afternoon – I opened the doors to air her, and finished up renewing both sets of door frames and putting in new locks. While the rest of my work gathers dust, outside. Is this the shape of things to come?’
‘She looks absolutely gorgeous,’ said Becky.
‘Wait until you see her finished,’ Mike smiled.
He steadied her as she stepped aboard, and somehow they finished up in each other’s arms. ‘We’ll have the neighbours talking,’ he said indistinctly, a few moments later. ‘I saw Mrs Thing’s curtains twitch, over there.’
‘Let them,’ said Becky.
Mike held her at arm’s length. ‘You look great,’ he said.
‘That’s what travelling twelve miles in a crowded bus does for you.’
‘I’d have fetched you in the van, if you’d phoned.’
‘Wanted to surprise you.’
‘You certainly did. What’s in your bags?’
‘Another surprise. I’ll leave them here. Where’s that guided tour you promised me?’
‘If you put me down, I’ll make a start on it.’
‘Me, put you down? You kissed me first!’
‘And last. . . .’ he said, a moment later.
Down in the cabin was a small world of its own. A long, wood-panelled kitchen-cum-lounge/dinette, with an iron stove. Three neat forward bedroom cabins – a main bedroom and two singles. Then open doors out onto the bows.
‘The previous owner must have loved her to bits,’ said Becky. ‘She’s immaculate. You could live and travel anywhere in her; there’s more space than the Ella Mae. But I don’t like these curtains.’
‘No. I’m taking them down and lifting out the carpets. I want to re-carpet her and reupholster her throughout. She’s in great nick, but a bit of maintenance work on furnishing and fittings will restore her to good-as-new. She deserves that – it’s a solid old hull, and an engine which will still be running in fifty years’ time.’
‘So, you’re pleased with her?’
‘Over the moon. But I’ll need your help in choosing the upholstery, then matching the carpets, curtains, wallpaper. Creating the whole ambience for living in her, from scratch. We’ll search round the textile places in Bradford, once you’re on your school holidays.’
‘Won’t you be busy then?’
‘Yes, but I’m taking on an old trade friend over the summer. He can cover for me, when I want time off. Should have done it years ago.’
She slipped an arm round him. ‘Hungry?’ she asked.
‘Not half! But there’s no food in my flat. We’ll have to eat at the pub.’
‘That’s taken care of,’ she said.
‘Ah – is that what’s in your bags?’
‘How about eating here? Having the first picnic in your own boat?’
Mike glanced around. ‘She’s pretty dusty,’ he objected. ‘And all that sawing and sanding today didn’t help.’
‘I can clean that up.’
‘There’s no water in her tanks yet,’ Mike protested. ‘And I haven’t checked out his dishes.’
‘I’ve brought my own. Go and get a shower. I’ll set things up.’
‘Let me help you.’
‘Go! Now!’ Becky pushed him up the cabin stairs.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said.
‘Take thirty. I want everything ready for you coming back.’
‘What’s the mystery?’ he asked. ‘A picnic is a picnic.’
‘Absolutely. Now, go!’
Through the dusty cabin windows, she watched him limp along the wharf, then flew at the work which lay in front of her. Meanwhile, Mike stopped to chat with his next-door neighbour, a keen gardener. When he returned, face clean, hair still damp, in a fresh shirt and fresh jeans, he held one hand behind his back. He ducked carefully down into the cabin and came down the steps. Then looked up.
As he did, the music started – haunting Romany music, played on violins. He gaped: the table was set, as if for a feast, with an opened bottle of wine and shining crystal glasses. Clean place mats shone, and silver cutlery glinted. At each end of the cabin table, candlesticks stood and the candles burned, their fragrance overlaying the smell of new wood from the cabin doors.
‘Not quite finished,’ Becky said. ‘The food’s due, any moment. Would you like a glass of wine – specially borrowed from Noel’s fairy stock?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Mike.
The boat rocked, as a waiter from the canal-side pub brought down their takeaway in polystyrene boxes. ‘Enjoy!’ he said, and left.
‘Sit down,’ ordered Becky. From her plastic bags, she brought out shining dinner plates, and opened the takeaway boxes. The mouth-watering smell of fish and chips filled the cabin. She dished them up neatly. ‘Not yet,’ she warned, reaching into the bag again and bringing out a vinegar bottle and a salt cellar. She set these neatly on the table.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve remembered everything . . . the wine, the candles, the gypsy music, the fish and chips, and the salt and vinegar. But no pickled onions. There’s only one thing missing . . . don’t tell me . . . I’ll remember.’
She clicked her fingers a couple of times, then feigned recollection. ‘Somebody has to get down on one knee – his good one.’
‘And?’ said Mike, a quiet smile on his face.
‘I think what he says begins with W and finishes with ill you marry me. Or something like that. But I’m not too sure. And he might have changed his mind.’
‘He might just,’ agreed Mike.
‘In which case I pack up the fish suppers and take them back to Noel. . . .’
‘Waste of good food,’ objected Mike. ‘They would be cold by then.’
‘It is an hour until the next bus home,’ agreed Becky.
‘Can he eat his fish supper, while he’s thinking?’
‘No,’ said Becky. ‘It’s ask, or starve.’
‘Oh well,’ sighed Mike. He rose and brought out the hand he’d been holding behind his back. It held a solitary red rose, in the full glory of its bloom. He bowed, and presented to it her. ‘I got this from my neighbour’s garden, so it’s probably full of caterpillars,’ he said.
He went down on one knee, as promised, looked up, and asked – his eyes twinkling. ‘What was it I had to say again?’
‘Don’t you dare!’ she warned.
Mike’s smile faded, and the laughter in his eyes was replaced by a huge tenderness. ‘Becky Calderwood,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I fell in love with you, from as far back as that Saturday morning in Ormskirk. I love you truly, madly, deeply, and I want to marry you. Will you please be my wife?’
Becky sniffed the flower, savouring the moment. ‘The truly, madly bit has been used before,’ she complained.
‘But it was a good film.’
‘Absolutely. So my reply is this. Mike Preston – I love you and I trust you with all my heart. Yes, I accept. And I pray that I will be your wife until the day I die.’ She paused. ‘Mike, these words about loving and trusting were always far more difficult to say, than “I do.” But I can say them now, wit
hout hesitating for a second. And mean them, with all my heart.’
Mike rose from the floor, and gathered her into his arms.
‘Love you, Becky,’ he said gently.
‘Love you too,’ she whispered back.
Noel sat in the stern well of the Ella Mae, shivering. ‘It’s too early in the year, to be sitting out like this,’ he grumbled.
‘Don’t be such a grump,’ said Henrietta.
‘It’s my boat,’ he argued. ‘I can be as big a grump as I want. I’m the captain. My word is law.’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Henrietta. ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’
‘All right,’ said Noel. ‘Isn’t it good to have everybody together again – the babies too. Look at them, walking back from the village like a Sunday School outing.’
Two family groups meandered along the path, the two men heads-down and deep in talk, Becky and Kathy with the babies in their arms, and the two older children out in front, running.
Noel smiled. ‘I’m coming over all avuncular,’ he said.
‘Is it catching?’
‘Probably.’ Noel lifted a hand to shade his eyes, then found himself wiping the tear flowing down his cheek. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be a crusty, hard-nosed old journalist. No illusions left.’
Henrietta smiled gently. This quiet man had woven himself round and through her heart, like an old country rose bush, growing until he’d filled all the spaces that had ached in her life.
‘It would be a sad existence, without illusions,’ she said.
Noel looked up, smiling. ‘Illusions, and one certainty,’ he said.
‘Which is?’
‘That it’s not just your old school that is blessed. Every life it has touched has been transformed. Made happy.’
‘Mine too,’ she said quietly. ‘What are they going to say, when you tell them?’
‘Me? That’s your job!’
‘It was your idea.’
He sighed. ‘OK, we tell them together.’
So they sat and waited for the young folk to come. To meet – and to congratulate – the two oldest newly-weds in Britain.
By the same author
Valley of the Vines
A Strange Inheritance
Another Chance, Another Life Page 17