A Boy Off the Bank Read online

  A Boy Off The Bank

  Titles from Geoffrey Lewis:

  Flashback

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-0-3

  Strangers

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-1-0

  Winter’s Tale

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-2-7

  Cycle

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-3-4

  Starlight

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-5-8

  A Boy Off The Bank

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-6-5

  A Girl At The Tiller

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-7-2

  The New Number One

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-8-9

  L-Plate Boating

  ISBN 978-0-9564536-0-0

  Jess Carter and the Oil Boat

  ISBN 978-0-9564536-1-7

  A Boy Off The Bank

  Geoffrey Lewis

  Copyright © Geoffrey Lewis 2006

  Geoffrey Lewis has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to actual people, or of the events described to actual occurrences, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9545624-6-5

  Reprinted 2008

  Reprinted 2011

  Printed and bound in the UK by

  CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham SN14 6LH

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 by

  SGM Publishing

  47 Silicon Court, Shenley Lodge, Milton Keynes, Bucks MK5 7DJ

  [email protected]

  www.sgmpublishing.co.uk

  This story is dedicated to the two men whose foresight, enthusiasm, and inspiration led to the founding of the Inland Waterways Association:

  In memory of Robert Aickman and Tom Rolt

  Acknowledgements

  A few words of thanks are due to those without whom this tale would be but a shadow of its actual self. I am fortunate to have been around England’s canals for many years, and am able to draw on my own knowledge of the ways and manners of the old-time boaters for much of the story, but it is always important that a writer like myself tries his best to make sure that the background and detail of his work is accurate: To this end, I have made use of such published works as William L. Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, for a factual history of the second world war (how’s that for dedication?). The account in David Bolton’s Race Against Time of the meeting between Rolt and Aickman at Tardebigge in August 1945 was the basis of my chapter 38. Further thanks must go to Brian and Janet Collings, for confirming the overall ‘feel’ of the story in its canal context, and to Suzanne Maskell for memories of Wolverton as it used to be!

  My trusty band of proof-readers merit a mention, of course – Pam, Mac, Sue, Bill, Janet, and Alison; not to mention Liz Payne of the I.W.A. who also read an early draft and made useful observations. And my thanks as ever go to Roger Wickham of Amherst Publishing, for doing the ‘donkey-work’ of getting my books into print!

  Last but far from least, I have to thank young Joe Wallington, who so readily posed as ‘Michael’ for the cover picture; and his mum, of course, for letting him!

  Geoffrey Lewis

  May 2006

  Introduction

  The Inland Waterways Association was inaugurated in February, 1946, at a meeting in Gower Street, in London. It was the inspiration of two like-minded men, Robert Aickman and Tom Rolt, canal enthusiasts who were distressed at the state our waterways were being allowed to fall into after six years of war; two men who first met on a narrowboat at the top of Tardebigge Locks in August 1945, while the war in the Pacific was still raging.

  Over the sixty years since then, it has grown to become not only a huge, democratically-run organisation of people who love Britain’s waterways, but an influential force in their preservation and restoration – many of the canals we can enjoy today, whether it is as boaters, anglers, walkers, naturalists, cyclists, or just casual visitors, are there to be enjoyed because of the efforts of the Inland Waterways Association.

  The spark of an idea, which was to become this story, had been with me for some years before it began to germinate, and it was during that process that it occurred to me that 2006, the year when I planned to have it ready for publication, would be the I.W.A.’s diamond jubilee. So it seems only fitting that a book which tells of the canals in the years immediately before the founding of the Association should commemorate that significant anniversary.

  Geoffrey Lewis

  May 2006

  Chapter One

  Hello Dad,

  How are you? Are you managing okay? Try not to let things get you down – I know that’s easier said than done, but Mum wouldn’t want you to be sad, she’d want you to try and get on with life. I’m sorry I had to go so soon after her funeral, but like I told you, there’s a bit of a flap on, they’re saying we might have to sail any time – I couldn’t tell you where, even if I knew myself, the censors would haul me over the coals if I did! But I’ll get back to see you very soon, the Captain’s promised me shore leave next time we dock in England so that I can make sure you’re okay.

  We didn’t have time to talk about the future really, did we? I mean, you can’t manage the boats now, can you – it must have been a struggle, even with Mum, and now… Will Mr Vickers find you a job on the dock, or would you rather get away from the cut altogether, go and work in a factory or something? That might be better, mightn’t it, leave the old life once and for all, start again? I can’t advise you, Dad – it was always you telling me what I should do, wasn’t it? But whatever you do, you know I’ll be there for you, as much as I can be with this damned war going on – and once it’s over, I’ll be home with you. Iris has said she’ll wait for me – if we get married then, maybe we could get a pair, and you could come back with us, make up a crew of three? Yes, let’s do that, Dad – you do whatever you think best for now, and when the war’s over, we’ll all go back on the cut! Perhaps we could buy our own boats, rather than run them for Fellers’s – I’ll try and put some money away from my Navy pay, save up – that’ll give us all something to look forward to, won’t it?

  For now, Dad, take care of yourself, and try not to get too upset. I’ll see you soon – give my love to Iris and her folks when you see them.

  Your loving son,

  Alex

  Ben Vickers lowered the sheet of notepaper slowly to the table in front of him, slipped off his reading glasses as he looked up at the man sat opposite him. Sad grey eyes lifted to meet his, set in a lined, weather-beaten face that suddenly looked ten years older than he remembered, than he knew its owner to be:

  ‘Thank yeh, Mr Vickers, Oi’m sorry ter trouble yer loike this’ Albert Baker’s voice was soft, choked with emotion.

  ‘It’s no trouble, Albert, you know that – I’m only too happy to help, especially at a time like this. Do you want to write back to Alex? I’ll take it down for you now, if you like.’

  ‘No – No, Oi’ll send somethin’ to ’im later, when Oi’ve ’ad toime ter think about it a bit. Toimes loike this, Oi wish Oi’d ’ad the chance o’ some scholarin’ – Oi wouldn’t ’ave ter bother yeh then.’ Vickers nodded sympathetically:

  ‘I know, Albert. But as I said, it’s no trouble. We all thought the world of your Rita, and we’ll stand by you any way we can. That goes for the company, as well, you can take my word for it.’

  ‘Oi know; n’ Oi’m grateful fer it, Mr Vickers.’ Baker leant back resig
nedly in his chair, fished a battered old pipe from his jacket pocket, began absently to fill it from the pouch he extracted from the other. Vickers watched him in silence for a moment, then he asked, gently:

  ‘What do you want to do, Albert? Would you like me to give you a job on the dock here at Braunston? God knows, I’ve enough work keeping the fleet going at the moment! Or would you rather go to City Road, or Nottingham? That way, you’d be away from the memories, perhaps. Or do you think you’ll do as Alex suggested, get away from the cut altogether, at least for now? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to lose you, but if that’s what you’d prefer…?’

  Baker didn’t answer for a while, but concentrated on getting his pipe lit, puffing slowly until a cloud of aromatic smoke began to drift around the small office. Then, his eyes met those of the traffic manager once again:

  ‘Oi’m not sure Oi know, roight now, Ben. Oi need ter think, get me ’ead around things – can Oi ’ave a day or two ’fore Oi decoide? Oi’d be most ’appy ter stay on the boats, a’ course, boot even Oi can see as ’ow’s that’d be difficult. Mebbe Oi could ’andle a single motor, on me own, boot… with this bloody war on, folks’ll be wantin’ things delivered quick, n’ Oi’d be too slow, ’old oother pairs oop, ter boot. Wouldn’t be fair, would it? Now – if yew could foind me a crew, a spare man or two…?’ He raised enquiring eyebrows at his companion; Vickers chuckled:

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Alby! I’ve more boats than crews, at the moment, you know that. I’ll give it some thought, for all that – meantime, you stay on the Antrim, where she is, until you’re ready. I’ll have your motor docked, perhaps next week, so that it’s fit and ready to go, and then – well, we’ll see, won’t we? But – I’d like you to think seriously about staying here, helping me on the dock. You’re good with the old Bolinders, I could use your expertise to keep them running now we aren’t getting the money to replace them. All right?’

  ‘All roight, Ben. Loike yer say, Oi knows me way ’round them old injins, mebbe Oi could be useful ’ere… Oi’ll think about it, h’okay?’

  ‘Okay, Alby! You tell me when you’ve decided. Now – another cuppa?’ Without waiting for a reply, he rose and asked the girl in the outer office for two cups of tea. Albert Baker was as much a friend as an employee – the two had known each other most of their lives. Both born on narrowboats, Albert had stayed with the travelling life of the working boatman, while Vickers had taken the chance, once offered, to go ‘on the bank’ at the company’s Braunston dock, and had since risen to be the local manager. Baker was one of the few boatmen who could, in private at least, get away with using his Christian name – in public, he would carefully maintain his friend’s dignity by calling him ‘Mr Vickers’.

  Now, the two shared a friendly silence along with their mugs of hot, sweet tea, Albert reflecting on his luck in having friends like Ben Vickers, and all the other boaters who had taken the time to come to his wife’s funeral, and express their sorrow and support, while Ben wondered how best to serve his old friend’s needs at this sad time, as well as doing the best he could for the company out of the situation. He needed crews; if he could somehow keep Alby Baker on the boats… But he could see no way of doing that. The man in question interrupted his reverie:

  ‘Oi couldn’t leave the cut, Ben’ his voice was low, contemplative: ‘It’s alwes bin moi loife, yew know that, Oi don’t know nothin’ else, n’ Oi’m too old ter learn noo tricks at moy age, whatever Alex moight think. Oi’ll be stickin’ around, some’ow, proba’ly ’ere with you, on the dock – boot, gimme a day or two ter get use’ter the oidea, h’okay?’ Vickers nodded, smiling gently at his old friend.

  Later, Albert Baker made his way from the Dock Manager’s office around the dry dock and along to where his butty was moored, near the iron bridge over the entrance to the old arm which now served as Fellows, Morton & Clayton Ltd’s dock and basin, trudging through the fresh-fallen snow which was taking on a sparkle as the sun began to emerge. He was greeted by everyone he saw, with expressions of encouragement or condolence, making him reflect again on how lucky he was to be a part of the boating community, a resident in that nomadic village which was the world of the working boatman and his family. He acknowledged each of them with a word or a wave, at last climbing down through the cabin doors into the tiny home he had shared with Rita for twenty-five years. Usually, he would stand in the hatches in idle moments like this, puffing at his pipe, elbows on the open slide in front of him, the doors pulled to behind, and watch the world go by – but, despite the sunshine beginning to break through the cloud, the January day was bitterly cold, a chill breeze cutting through the heaviest of coats. And anyway, he didn’t feel like being sociable, preferring to grab a little time to himself while he had the opportunity. Now, he slid the slide-hatch closed over his head, riddled the fire in the range to stir it back into life, and sat on the side-bed, resting the back of his head on the cabinside behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Reg Thompson was angry. Not that there was anything unusual in that – Reg seemed to live his life at varying levels of rage, nowadays: Rage at his job, which he had come to hate, where he felt trapped; rage at the home where he felt just as trapped; rage at the wife he had once loved, certainly, but incontrovertibly did no longer; rage at the children who only served to entrap him more effectively each and every day. And, most of all, rage at himself, for allowing himself to become so inextricably trapped in a life he hated.

  There were times, still, rare moments of sobriety and reflection, when he regretted his own anger, wanted, tried, to dispel it. But it always got the better of him. There had been times, hadn’t there, when life had been good? He’d been pleased, delighted, to be promoted to chargehand in the blacksmith’s shop of the railway works – he enjoyed working with his hands, and the money, for the time, was very good. And Nettie – they’d been so much in love when they married, moved into the house in Windsor Street which the company had found for them. And he could still, if he really tried, remember the pride which had swelled with the birth of his first son. Michael had been, was, a fine kid – so why did he find it so difficult to to praise and encourage him occasionally instead of always shouting him down, putting him down?

  Because it had all gone wrong. Gone wrong, from the day his second son had been born. Even Reg couldn’t actually blame Andrew – the kid couldn’t help what he was, the doctors said it was just one of those things, something which went wrong sometimes, in the genes. Whatever they were. But, come what may, Andy was a Mongol – and that meant his brain didn’t work properly, he’d never be really able to look after himself. Now, Nettie had to spend most of her time and attention looking after him; and that meant she had little time for Michael, for little Ginny – or for her husband. And so had begun the resentment which had, in turn, sparked the anger in Reg – anger which, because its root cause lay in an innocent, loving, disabled seven-year-old, had to find its outlet in other directions. Nettie, inevitably, took the brunt of it. Ginny, at five-and-a-half, had developed the knack of keeping her head down at the right moments. But Michael…

  Michael Thompson was a typical, bright, lively, energetic ten-year-old, the kind who, even in a normal household, would have a tendency to get himself into scrapes, to get under your feet without meaning to. The boy tried, he tried very hard, to help his mother, he tried even harder not to upset his father – but he still got it wrong all too often. And then Reg’s anger would take over, making him lash out at the boy, physically as well as verbally. Yes, there were times when Reg found himself filled with remorse at the way he treated his son, the way he treated all of his family; but those times were getting rarer and rarer as the years went by, the anger, fed by a liberal intake of mild and bitter in the North Western, becoming his habitual state of mind, all day, every day…

  It was a bitter day, the North-East wind cutting you to the bone if you ventured outside. Snow had fallen intermittently, driving against the North-light windows of th
e workshops, piling up in the gulleys and making it darker than ever inside. Reg stumbled along Windsor Street, in Wolverton’s terraced estate of railway housing, huddled in his heaviest duffle-coat, hands thrust deep in his pockets; his unsteadiness only in part the result of the wind. Four pints, downed in quick succession in the public bar, to help him forget the hard, mind-numbing labour of the day, to help him cope with the evening – the barely-adequate food Nettie would have prepared for him, the demanding, uncritical affection that Andrew would want to show him, the wary welcome he might, or might not, get from his daughter, and his oldest son’s careful avoidance of his presence.

  He walked in through the front door, slung off his coat and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall, where it began to drip disconsolately onto the floor. In the front room, Michael was sitting on the carpet in front of the fire, playing with the cheap (and second-hand) toy car which was all they had been able to afford as a Christmas present for him; Andrew sat watching, his habitual smile on his podgy face. As their father entered, both looked up; Michael greeted him with a quick ‘Hello, Dad’ and a flash of a smile which as soon vanished, but Andrew jumped up and rushed over, throwing his arms around Reg’s legs and almost toppling him. Reg ruffled his hair, but disentangled himself:

  ‘Come on, Andy, let me by, I need my dinner.’

  ‘Through here, Reg, I’ll dish up for you’ Nettie called from the kitchen. Andrew went back to watching Michael playing on the floor as he pushed through into the other room; Nettie gave him a smile as she placed a plate at each side of the table. He sat down, picked up his knife and fork; and then realised what was before him:

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Bubble and Squeak…’

  ‘And one sausage?’