You Never Told Me

by Sarah Jasmon

  ‘I think you might have run out of fuel.’ Dave sounded annoyingly calm, his words a simple observation with no hint of what she should do. Why hadn’t she checked the tank? Stupid, stupid. She started looking around to see where they could stop. The bank by the towpath was full, boats packed in nose to tail. The end of the line wasn’t too far ahead, but would she be able to keep Skíðblaðnir moving forwards for long enough? And would she be able to coax the boat into the space with no power to steer her?

  Dave was already making his way along the gunnels to the spot where the mid-rope was coiled neatly on the roof. ‘Keep her going as long as you can, I’ll jump over and pull her in,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not going to get far enough for you to reach the bank,’ she said, an absolute certainty washing over her. The breeze was still behind them, pushing them along, but without any way to steer they were going to end up on the wrong bank, unable to get back. And that bank was thick with a margin of reeds, the ground beyond inaccessible and covered in new growths of bramble.

  ‘Come on, just a bit further.’ Dave was poised, ready to jump.

  Charlie risked a little acceleration, easing Skíðblaðnir’s bow over to the right. There was a final-sounding cough from the engine, and a sudden gust that caught them side-on. That was it. All she could do was stand there whilst the boat moved on with her inexorable trajectory. Then she heard a shout from the side. Dave had somehow managed to jump onto the gunnel of the nearest boat, mid-rope in hand. She watched as he made his way along, fending away from the side of the moored boat, then clambering round the front and making it to the towpath. There was another boat to cross before a gap, and Skíðblaðnir was still trying to move in the opposite direction. Charlie felt the tension as the rope tightened. Dave was leaning into it, at the same time twitching it along over the roof of the next boat. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they began to shift in the direction he was pulling.

  ‘Keep going, we’re getting there!’ Charlie edged her way out, ready to fend off as they came in closer. A head had come up above the edge of the boat they were manoeuvring past, but not to make trouble. Instead, the man – grey-haired and bearded, with braces over an old-fashioned white shirt – went along to where Dave was trying to adjust the angle of the rope.

  ‘You go along there now, try and get your other rope,’ he said. ‘I’ll have this one.’

  Charlie crab-walked to the bow and picked up the bow rope. Dave was standing ready to catch it as she threw. It landed short, with a splash. With red cheeks, she coiled it in, dripping, to have another try.

  ‘Wind it up, that’s the way.’ Another voice was calling out, and she looked up to see the friendly little lady from the town moorings. But it couldn’t be her, because they’d left her behind only that morning. ‘Divide it into two, now,’ she was saying. ‘One half in each hand. That’s right, now let’s be having it.’

  This time, the rope flew over with no trouble. There was nothing left for Charlie to do except stand and watch as she was reeled in, with great efficiency, by a couple of small pensioners. Her only comfort was that Dave had nothing more to do with the rescue either. She caught his eye and he winked. She winked back, and suddenly felt a lot more cheerful.

  EIGHTEEN

  Vincent and Mary loaned them some spare fuel, Vincent insisting on pouring it into the tank for her. Charlie stood on the bank with Mary, watching as the old man organized matters on the back deck, giving out orders to Dave as assistant.

  ‘And sure, you’d have seen my sister up there.’ Mary was maybe a little younger but had the same smile. ‘Will you be telling her to come out for a cruise, then?’

  ‘I’ll pass on the message if we see her,’ Charlie said. ‘On the way back, perhaps. Thank you so much for this. I’m not sure what we’d have done otherwise. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Dear God, no need to pay us just now!’ Mary shook her head, patting Charlie’s arm as she spoke. ‘You’ll be going to the marina down the way for more. Have Mick fill the cans up and keep them for us to collect. We’ll be away there in the next couple of days.’

  Charlie was about to ask for more detailed directions to the marina when Mary spoke again. ‘He’s a nice young man you have there, now.’

  Charlie turned automatically to look at where Vincent and Dave had just finished with the fuel. Dave was bending over, screwing the brass fuel cap back in, whilst Vincent stood by, in the middle of what must be a funny story. He came to the punchline, slapping Dave’s shoulder and repeating the last line. Dave grinned up at him, then, catching Charlie’s eye, gave her a wink. ‘He’s just a friend,’ she said, turning back to the little lady and nodding. ‘Here for a few days, helping me up the next lot of locks.’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s enough of them for all that,’ Mary replied. ‘Now that’s them done and you’ll be away.’

  There was a flurry of thank yous and goodbyes, and Charlie swapped places with Vincent and stood on the side, waving, as they moved away. It felt a little as if she was leaving her own grandparents behind. Not that she remembered them, or at least very little. There had only been her father’s, and they’d both died when she was very small. She could just summon up the memory of a musty room, an old man lying flat in a hospital-style bed. She and Eleanor had been given a battered tin of broken crayons and some brown paper bags to keep them busy. For a second, she was back there, old carpet dust in her nose and her father’s voice becoming suddenly loud. It’s the best arrangement we can manage. And then – the same visit? The room seemed different somehow – No, Britta can’t do that. This will have to do.

  ‘Right, what’s the plan then?’ Dave was next to her, jigging on his toes to keep warm in the fresh morning breeze. It was bright, at least, the banked clouds on the horizon looking as if they were going to keep their distance.

  ‘The marina first,’ Charlie told him. ‘You can steer until we get there. And then we’ve got all of those lovely locks to do.’

  Dave took a turn at the tiller when they left the marina, giving Charlie the opportunity to stand and watch as the banks slipped by. Reeds gave way to tangled undergrowth, then to a tree dipping its branches into the water. For a while, the edge by the towpath was bare, the grass trodden short on the path itself but thickening into clumpy tufts to form a line between water and land. A grey shape, hunched in meditation, caught her eye. As they drew closer, she took a sharp breath in at the sight of the long thin legs, the crooked shoulders. One of the scraps in Britta’s envelope: Three herons!! The handwriting had fizzed with pleasure. Unless it was the same one three times … At the bottom of the page was a sketch, the few lines capturing perfectly the dismissive look Charlie now saw in front of her. With a last glance, the bird gave its feathers a shake and lurched forwards, taking flight in an effort of will against gravity. Charlie watched it make a line across the neighbouring fields, an ungainly bundle with legs trailing. Then it made a turn, tucking its feet up as if making a conscious effort to tidy itself. Its neck was bent at an angle that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. The bird rejected her sympathy.

  The first lock of the day was the last obstacle before they moved out onto the Trent and Mersey. Dave turned, letting go of the tiller and holding out his hands, palms upwards, to offer control back to her.

  ‘No, you stay with it.’ Charlie grinned as she stepped over to reach for the windlass. She waited at the side for the bank to come close enough to step off.

  ‘Are you sure you remember what order to do them in?’

  ‘Boat in, water out, boat out.’ She gave a mock salute, then wheeled round before breaking into a brief jog. The pound was at its lowest, meaning a boat had gone through before them, taking the water down. She could hear her boat engine running in neutral behind her, could feel Dave watching as she wound the lock paddles up, shoulders bunching with the effort. It was her turn to watch once the water was up and the gates opened. He took Skíðblaðnir in with ease, not touching the sides at all, his expression focused and abs
orbed in the action. There could be worse companions to be landed with. He turned as if he had heard her, and flashed a fast, companionable smile. Charlie felt her cheeks heat up, as if she’d been caught out in something, and she hurried to swing the gates shut. ‘Let’s not get carried away, hey, girl?’ she whispered, either to herself or to the boat.

  They took turns steering and opening locks after that, glad of the biscuits and chocolate they’d bought at the marina along with the fuel. It all made do for lunch rather than stopping to see what food there was in the cupboards. The day was tiring, though sometimes boats were coming down, leaving the gate open for them to go straight in. One of the boaters stopped to warn them of someone ahead who kept forgetting to close the gates properly, draining the pounds; they’d been held up for over an hour waiting for one to refill.

  There was an incident halfway through, when they were on a stretch between locks. Dave was just bringing out mugs of tea when they came up alongside a man on the bank. He was young, dressed in jeans and a hoody, a fishing line jammed under one arm as he bent his head to light a cigarette. Charlie was reaching out for her mug and wasn’t quite quick enough to catch Skíðblaðnir as a gust sent her sideways.

  ‘Watch where you’re bloody going!’

  Charlie was too busy with the boat to pay much attention, but Dave reacted with unexpected force.

  ‘Have you got a problem?’

  She turned to see him move out onto the side of the boat, hanging with one hand on the rail.

  ‘Yeah!’ The man was walking now, keeping pace with them. ‘With bloody women drivers cocking up my lines. You need to get her in her place, mate.’

  For a second, Charlie thought Dave was going to try to jump over to the bank. ‘Just ignore him,’ she said, shifting the engine to a slightly faster speed. The gap was too wide for him to get across, but he stayed where he was, holding eye contact with the other man until he gave up and went back to his pitch.

  ‘Arsehole.’ He was still on alert, hackles raised.

  ‘He’s a fisherman.’ Charlie had listened to a few choice opinions on fishermen from Bob and Libby Rae. ‘They can’t all be woke, what you gonna do?’

  To her relief, he gave a laugh and turned back to the deck, settling himself down against the door-frame and picking up a sandwich. A clutch of ducklings came into view, five or six of them strung out close to the bank. Not tiny fluffballs as she’d seen on previous days, but with the tracery of adult feathers starting to show on their active little bodies. The mother was still with them, circling as the wake from the boat jolted them up and down. Charlie chucked a crust across to them and watched as they swam across the surface of the water towards them. She could feel Dave watching her.

  ‘What?’ she asked, relieved that his momentary anger had subsided.

  He shook his head in response. ‘You should eat your crusts, didn’t your mother ever tell you?’

  Charlie lifted her eyebrows. ‘Quite frankly, if you can resist ducklings, you’re beyond human help.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t resist them at all,’ he replied. ‘Shredded with crispy pancakes, roasted with a honey glaze …’

  She aimed a swipe at his shoulder. He was out of her reach, though, laughing as he threw his own crusts out to the brood. It was good for both of them, she thought, that mothers could still be mentioned in a light-hearted way.

  The plan had been eighteen locks by the end of the day, but in the end they stopped after twelve. As Charlie guided the boat out of the last one, Dave was pointing towards a white-painted pub standing side-on to the water.

  ‘Dinner!’ he called, as soon as she was close enough. ‘And I have an idea.’

  He helped her to tie up to the bank, then disappeared inside. Charlie was too tired to really wonder what he was doing. She just hoped they wouldn’t get to the pub and find that they weren’t doing food. Now that they’d stopped, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do anything else, even eat. Left to herself, she’d be in bed.

  They didn’t talk much whilst they waited for the food. Charlie sipped slowly on her lime and soda. Alcohol had been tempting but would have made the possibility of falling asleep before she’d eaten into a probability. How could standing on the back of a boat, or walking round from one side of a lock gate to the other, be so very tiring?

  ‘Is it always this hard?’ she asked.

  ‘What, locks?’ Dave shrugged, taking a mouthful of his beer. ‘Sometimes. This stretch does have a lot in a row, but they’re spread out a bit. Tardebigge’s got thirty in just over two miles.’

  Charlie sat up. ‘We don’t have that coming up, do we?’

  ‘No.’ He laughed across at her, giving his head a shake as she collapsed back down in her seat. ‘But that is what I was thinking.’ He put something on the table, spinning it round so the title was level between them. ‘Map of the waterways.’

  ‘Can we get this bit out of the way first before we plan the next stage?’ Bella. Her mind thrust the thought into her head, up from the secondary layer she’d pushed it down into. The plan bobbed up as well. In this setting, with a couple of guys leaning on the bar to her left and a family settling in for a meal on the far side of the quiet room, it seemed ridiculous. They’d drag their way through all thirty locks, or whatever it was, and find the house closed and no sign of Bella. Or, worse, they’d hear her through the door and be unable to do anything about it. Or Max would be home and the two men would get into an argument. Charlie thought briefly of Dave’s reaction to the fisherman. Was she making a fool of herself?

  Dave was unfolding the map, manipulating it into the shape he wanted. ‘We’re here, OK?’ Charlie nodded. She’d have to trust him on that. ‘And we’re heading up here.’ His finger landed on a diagonal point up and to the left. In between she could see the canal, bristling with the little arrowheads which signified a lock. They’d hardly made a dent in the number. ‘It’s going to take at least another day, possibly two, to get up there, and then three more to get back to where we started.’

  Charlie blinked to clear her vision and tried to take in what he was showing her. Was he about to say he couldn’t come with her after all? But it had been his idea! Her doubts about the plan grew, yet at the same time she felt more determined that it should be carried out. How could she not, now? With him or without him. ‘If you have to get back— I mean, I can get there, don’t feel you have to stick around.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ He came to her side of the table, sitting on the other chair and straightening the map so that it was in front of them both. ‘You want to get up there, check things out, and then go straight back down, right?’ She took a moment to let the statement run through her tired mind and then nodded. ‘The thing with locks is that they take up time without necessarily getting you much further forwards. There’s a winding hole here.’ He tapped a spot just along from the position he’d said was their current location. ‘We can turn in the morning, leave Skíðblaðnir tied up, and walk the rest of the way. I reckon it’ll take, what, an hour? Then we can be back on board and on our way down again, get to the tunnel for the evening. It’ll save time, energy, all the good things, right?’

  ‘Steak pie?’ The waitress’s words took a moment to filter through. Charlie heard Dave thanking the girl, smelled the fragrance of the gravy coming from his plate. Her own food arrived as well, and she dug her fork in but then stopped before lifting it up.

  ‘So we just have the locks we did today to go down?’ The futility of the journey struck her. Maybe she should just turn back altogether. Everything she tried turned out wrong. She put the fork down, hopelessness building up behind her nose and cheekbones, the pressure salty and cutting.

  ‘Well, there is that.’ Dave wasn’t sounding as though it was all an unmitigated disaster. He spoke through a mouthful of pie. ‘But think about it positively. You get your dog and only have to do twelve locks. If we go all the way through, we’d have to be coming down through thirty to get you back. You don’t want what’s-
her-name coming and finding us halfway down a lock, right?’ He glanced up at her and noticed the tears that had finally spilled out. ‘Hey, no need for that!’ He took a napkin and dabbed at her face. ‘You’re just tired and hungry, OK? Go on, get stuck in. You don’t want it getting cold.’

  NINETEEN

  A chunky yellow retriever snuffled outside the open side hatch, stopping to cock his leg against the centre mooring pin. She turned to Dave, about to make a joke, say that he could get that pin out when they got back. He was looking at her, an expression on his face that she didn’t want to analyse. It was only there for a second anyway; almost before she’d seen it, he’d turned away and was filling a bottle of water at the sink.

  ‘Don’t want to be getting dehydrated,’ he said, turning back and gesturing to the front of the boat. ‘OK, Operation Bella. Shall we make a start?’

  Charlie closed the hatch doors and led the way out.

  The sun was staying put behind a stubborn, flat layer of cloud. Charlie could feel a buzzing in her feet, almost like a tiny electrical current preparing her for the task ahead. Skíðblaðnir was a fair distance behind them now, bobbing at her moorings with the canal stretching before her like an escape route. Would they need it? She had a picture in her mind of them both making a run for it after whatever was about to happen. The little figures in her imagination jumped on board and started the boat up, heading away at the vessel’s ponderous walking speed before having to stop at the next locks, held stationary whilst the necessary openings were done. Not the best getaway vehicle.