A Boy Off the Bank Read online

  ‘I’m sorry, Reg love – it’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘How’m I supposed to put in a day’s bloody ’ard work on food like this?’

  ‘I know, love – I had a pork chop for you, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well – Buster pinched it when I wasn’t looking. I’d only turned my back for a second, really…’ she was going on hurriedly as he interrupted:

  ‘That bloody dog! Why we keep that mangy, flea-ridden bloody pest I’ll never know! All it’s good for is making a bloody mess and pinching our food whenever it gets the chance!’

  ‘Reg! Buster’s Michael’s dog – you said he could have one!’

  ‘Didn’t know we were lumbering ourselves with a bloody thief, did I? No more – it’s bloody going, soon’s I’ve ’ad me dinner!’

  ‘Dad! You can’t!’ Michael had heard the angry exchange; now he stood in the open kitchen door.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are to tell me I can’t? That bloody dog’s been nothing but trouble all it’s life, n’ I’m not putting up with it any more – it’s going, I tell you!’

  ‘But Dad – I’ll make him stop taking things, I promise! I’ll be responsible for him, I will – I’ll keep him in the garden, so’s he can’t pinch things!’ Michael went over to stand by his father’s chair, put a hand on his arm entreatingly; Reg turned to him, took him roughly by his upper arms:

  ‘No! He’s going, and that’s that. Where is he now?’

  ‘In the garden’ his wife replied, as her son gazed with horrified eyes at his father.

  ‘He can bloody stay there for now, then. And I’ll take him away later.’

  ‘No, Dad, please!’

  ‘I told you, don’t argue with me, boy!’ Reg shook his son roughly, then pushed him away and turned to his dismal plateful: ‘Is there any tea?’ he asked Nettie.

  ‘Kettle’s on, Reg.’

  She didn’t dare to mention, any more than Reg would have ever acknowledged, that the main reason that their larder was so poorly provisioned was because a large part of his weekly wage went over the public bar of the North Western or the Craufurd Arms. She sat, looking at her husband as he began to wolf down the meal which she, too, would have described as inadequate, wondering if her memory was playing tricks with her, if her life with him could ever have been as wonderfully harmonious as she thought she remembered from all those years ago. Now, they just seemed to struggle from one crisis to the next, whether it was a crisis of personalities, or money, or… Michael had dashed from the room after his father’s last words – she wanted to go to him, comfort him, if she could, but she knew that to do so would raise Reg’s anger to another, more catastrophic, notch. At least he hadn’t hit the boy, this time, although she sensed it had been a close run thing.

  She bent to her own dinner, ate without enjoyment, and then cleared the plates away, returning with a fresh pot of tea. Glancing into the front room, she saw that Andy had taken over Michael’s toy, and was playing happily on the rug; muffled sounds of crying came from upstairs – and where was Ginny? She poured the tea for Reg, and then slipped quietly up to look into the children’s bedroom, to see Michael laying on his bed, his face hidden in his arms, and his little sister sitting beside him, one arm curled around his neck in comfort. She’s doing better than I could! Nettie reflected, and stole downstairs again, to try, at some risk of further riling her husband, to persuade him to relent on his sentence on Buster.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Gooin’ ter be a cold ’un tonoight, Gracie!’ Bill Hanney called across to his oldest daughter as she raised the paddles on the far side of Fenny Lock.

  ‘Yes, Pop – be loocky if we’re not boostin’ ioce tomorrer!’

  ‘Ar – could be n’ all! Yer Ma getting the dinner?’

  ‘Yeah. ‘Ow far we gooin’?’

  ‘Oi thought mebbe Cosgrove – or the Navvie, if we can do the extra ’alf-hour ’fore we all get too cold or too ’ungry!’

  ‘’kay, Pop. Oi’m glad that snow’s stopped, though!’

  ‘Me too, Gal!’

  They pushed open the gates of the empty lock, and Bill waved to Little Bill to run the boats out. The motor slid slowly past; he stepped onto the counter deck as his son paid out the towline which he’d picked up from the foredeck of the butty. The teenager snagged it around one of the stern dollies, tied it off when they were about eighty feet in front; the stern dipped, as the motor took up the tow, started the loaded butty moving out of the lock in its wake. Gracie was already on board, taking up the heavy wooden tiller and slotting it back into place in the top of the rudder – the ’ellum, as she would have called it – and settling down to steer her silent, captive charge through the frosty darkness of the winter night.

  ‘Yew goo down, get warm, boy’ Bill told his son, taking the tiller from him.

  ‘Roight y’are, Dad. Oi’ll spell yer in a whoile, h’okay?’

  ‘Foine, Billy.’ The boy ducked out of sight, pulled the cabin doors to behind himself. Bill leant in the open slide hatch, the lower half of his body inside the cabin where he stood on the step inside the doors; warmth from within spilled up around his body, into the folds of his heavy jacket. Elbows on the hatch, he rolled himself a cigarette, cupped his hands around it to light it.

  Three hours, to Cosgrove Lock. They had to get there, at least – the long pound from Fenny Stratford was pretty well all in open country, just the occasional remote village along the way. Not a place to get trapped if the ice took a real hold overnight. No, if they could make Cosgrove, they’d be okay whatever happened. Tomorrow, they should get to Braunston all right – normally, they’d be well past, Birdingbury Wharf maybe, but he and Vi wanted to stop in, see how Alby Baker was doing. They’d missed Rita’s funeral, being all the way to Limehouse dock to load, but they both wanted to pay their respects to an old friend.

  Thinking of Alby made Bill reflect on how lucky he was. Four good kids, and Vi as fit and well as ever… Alby and Rita’d only had the one boy: Alex was a fine lad, no mistake, but he’d decided to join up when the war started; his Dad had carried on, but now without Rita to help, he’d have to give up the boats, surely? Fellers’s, Mr Vickers, would find him something, a job on the dock probably – but it wouldn’t be the same, would it? Not to Alby, anyway.

  Yes, Bill felt himself so lucky by comparison. Vi was the best missus he could have wished for; Gracie was a fine girl, coming up sixteen soon – she’d be finding herself a feller before long! Little Bill wasn’t so little now, either, nearly fourteen; Stevie, capable, reliable, quick-witted, at nine years old; and Jack, bright and unstoppable, and pushing eight. No, he couldn’t have a better family!

  The boats cruised steadily on their way, making a good four miles an hour, the old Bolinder engine going as strong as ever, its exhaust echoing a constant tonk-tonk-tonk-tonk-tonk from the banks, reverberating hollowly under every bridge. The towpath, the surrounding fields, all glowed eerily white under the moonlight now that the cloud had broken, making it seem almost as bright as day – a help, to their night-time journey, but one which held its own menace. Clear skies meant an inevitable frost; a hard enough frost, a layer of ice on the water, and their way would be drastically slowed the next day. Only an exceptional frost would stop them going altogether, but even a light skim would have an effect on their progress…

  Past the village of Simpson, past the Plough… On through Tinker’s Bridge… Skirting away from the village of Woolstone… By Great Linford Wharf, Little Bill came up from below to join his father:

  ‘All roight, Dad? Cuppa tea fer yeh.’ Bill gratefully took the steaming mug:

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’ The youngster, muffled in a heavy donkey-jacket, a thick scarf around his neck, squeezed under the tiller to stand on the gunwale to one side of the cabin:

  ‘Gonna freeze, tonoight?’

  ‘Reckon so.’

  ‘Yew pressin’ on ter Cosgrove?’

  ‘Yeah. We could’a stopped ’ere,
I s’pose, walked oover ter the Nag’s ’Ead, or toied boy the Black ’Orse. Boot oi want ter be as far ahead as Oi can be, tonoight. We should be oop Cosgrove Lock, in the village, ’fore it gets too late.’

  ‘Roight. Oi’ll tek ’er now, Dad, yew goo ’n warm oop.’

  ‘H’okay, lad.’

  Bill glanced back as he clambered down into the cabin, saw that his wife had relieved Gracie from the ’ellum of the butty; his daughter would be down in the warm, doing her best to keep the two youngest boys amused. Earlier in the day, they’d had a fine time, running and playing on the snow-covered towpath, keeping pace with the moving boats, rushing to help at every lock. But now, in the dark, their mother wouldn’t allow them to stay out; no more would Bill himself! There was too much danger of an unexpected slip, a sudden fall into the bitter cold water – and a couple of minutes in water this cold could kill a child, even before he had time to drown.

  Down in the confines of the cabin, Bill sat on the sidebed, reached forward to riddle the fire, threw on a couple more lumps of coal. The little range was almost glowing, the kettle singing merrily on its top-plate; golden light from the oil-lamps gleamed on the brass of the fiddle-rails, the polished knobs and handles of the drawers and the table-cupboard, made the gold edging of the hanging-up plates sparkle. A feeling of deep contentment filled the boater: Folks on the bank could keep their fancy houses, their upstairs and downstairs rooms, their electric light; all he and his kind needed was a good boat, a cosy cabin, and a steady flow of orders to keep them loaded and travelling, to keep the money coming in.

  In the hatches, Little Bill leant on the slide with one arm, the tiller tucked under the other, peering forward into the bright gloom of the winter night. They hadn’t lit the headlamp – with so much light coming from the fields under the moon, there was no need for it – and he steered to follow the gleam of water, under Black Horse Bridge and out around the hill at Stantonbury, round Target Turn, by the old army firing range, and on, under the turnpike road again to pass the old derelict windmill on its hilltop at Bradwell. A brief stretch of open countryside, and then they were skirting behind the railway works of Wolverton, the glow and clamour of the night shift shattering the peace of the canal, all but drowning out the Bolinder’s steady beat: Air-raid men’ll ’ave their goots fer garters if they see that loight! the teenager grinned to himself.

  Less than an hour, now; Billy, like his father, loved their way of life, couldn’t imagine giving it up to work in a dirty, noisy factory like the one he was passing. But that night, he wouldn’t be sorry to tie up, sit in the warm of the cabin and get on the outside of a big plate of his mother’s stew, and then go across to the ’Mow for a pint of ale with his Dad. They began to leave the noise and bustle of the works behind them; he shifted his feet, settled into a more comfortable stance, leaning on the tiller as the sides of the cutting began to rise around him.

  Chapter Four

  Nettie Thompson eased the door of the children’s bedroom open. Ginny had taken herself off to her own bed, in the far corner, and was now snuggled down, only a tangle of golden hair visible on her pillow; Michael lay curled up on his side, face to the wall. His breathing was slow and even – asleep? Or was he pretending, not wanting her attention – she knew full well that he had taken to doing that, lately, when he was hurt or upset by his father’s anger. Only a year or two ago, he would have turned to her, reached out to her for comfort, held her close to ease his suffering…

  Now, it seemed as if little Ginny was the only one who could get close to him. Nettie knew, understood, why he would feel that way, and blamed herself – but Andy was the root of the problem. The Mongol boy was so sweet-natured, so affectionate – but he wanted her affection, her attention, all the time. Even he was wary of approaching his father. And – the doctors had told them, Mongolism affected different children in different ways. Some were only lightly disabled, almost capable of living a normal life; but Andy was more severely handicapped. She needed to be with him, watching him, protecting him from himself – he didn’t understand things, would quite likely try to lift a boiling pot from the stove, or play with the flames in the grate…

  And poor Michael was the only pair of reliable extra hands she had around – he would run errands for her, wash up, sweep the floors, tidy the children’s room, as soon as he was asked. But she had begun to sense a growing reluctance, a resentment at being called upon like that, all the time – what could she do? She needed all the help he could give her, just to stay ahead of life; if she didn’t, if things got out of hand, the house untidy, food not ready on time, Reg’s mood would descend from anger into a real fury, vented, more often than not, in violence – violence against herself she could handle, but so often, too often, he would lash out at Michael…

  But not tonight. She rubbed the fresh bruises on her arms, stroked the tender side of her jaw, as she gazed down at the son she loved, but so frequently used, ignored, when all she wanted to do was hold him, hug him: Oh, Michael…

  Michael heard the quiet click as the door closed behind his mother. He had known she was there, but, as she had guessed, hadn’t wanted her fussing over him. He rolled onto his back, lay staring at the ceiling of the darkened room, hearing his sister’s quiet breathing in the opposite corner. Andy would be curled up asleep next to their mother, on the settee in the front room – that was how it always happened. She would carry him up to bed, soon, tuck him in… She used to do that for me!

  There came a muffled clattering from downstairs, a stifled whimper: Buster! He heard his father’s voice, his words inaudible but his tone angry; then the bang of the front door, and he knew that his faithful puppy, his companion of the last months with whom he’d played and romped around the fields up by Manor Farm, and along the old canal towpath, was gone. Gone for ever: I hate him! Unlike his father, Michael knew where to focus his anger. He lay there, thinking about his life, his family – if his hatred was directed solely at the father who seemed only able to curse him or hit him, anywhere else he looked he found only emptiness. His mother only spoke to him to give him another job, the love he vaguely remembered vanished from her tone; Andy’s love was open and carefree, true, but then Andy loved everyone the same way, so that his affection counted for little. Only Ginny really seemed to care about him – but then, since she’d started school, she had found new friends of her own, and had less and less time for her big brother.

  I’m just in the way, all the time… If he wasn’t there, Mum could give all her attention to Andrew; Dad wouldn’t get so angry, shout at her, or knock her about: He’d heard the row, the scuffling, from downstairs. Again. And Ginny? She’d be better off, too, probably, if he wasn’t around – Mum could give more time to her as well, maybe; and she wouldn’t get so frightened, if Dad wasn’t so angry all the time…

  I wish I was dead – heaven can’t be as miserable as this! The thought, nebulous at first, brought a shiver to his spine – but the shiver wasn’t only of horror, there was an element of hope, of inspiration, about it. He lay still, his mind in a whirl, his thoughts unformed, not daring to follow his ideas to their conclusion – but slowly, a decision, a resolve, took hold of him…

  Michael swung his legs from the bed, got silently to his feet. He groped around under it for his shoes, sat on its edge to put them on, lace them tightly. Moving as quietly as he could so as not to wake his sister, he found, pulled on, a thick jersey, then let himself out of the room. He stole down the stairs, took his coat from the hook in the narrow hallway, and slipped out of the front door, his heart in his mouth in case his mother heard him. Closing it behind him, he struggled into the coat, and began walking.

  The snow on the ground muffled his footfalls; out into the street, left towards the works he trudged, his head bent, chin sunk into the collar of his coat, his thick golden hair moving gently with the breeze. He shivered, and not only with the now-intense cold of the night. Left again, into Stratford Road; across to the far pavement and along the unending wa
ll of the railway buildings; then past the expanse of the printing works. Few people passed him on such a bleak evening, and none ventured to speak. At the far end of the works, a path led away from the road towards the canal.

  He reached the black, silent waterway, in its low cutting, paused to peer down over the parapet of the high bridge. Suicide Bridge… That was what they called it – from the time, many years before, when a lady had thrown herself from it, to her death. He could follow her example… But somehow the idea of plunging from its height into the freezing water gave him pause – he walked on, turned around the end of the abutment wall and scrambled down to the towpath below. There was another bridge, a little way along here, wasn’t there?

  Barely a hundred yards on, that other bridge loomed out of the darkness. Beyond it, he could hear the sounds of revelry echoing from The Galleon, the pub next to the old coal wharf; at its side, he turned and tried to climb the bank towards the road level. He couldn’t get up – it was too steep, and everything was under inches of snow! Damn! He let the naughty word he’d heard his father use so often echo round deliciously in his mind while he wondered what to do next: Now or never, Michael!

  He began to climb again. He got as far up the steep bank as he could, hauling himself up with the bushes which grew there, pushing himself up against the rough stonework of the bridge itself; he turned and looked down at the black, inviting water…

  Goodbye, Ginny! He ran, not caring any more if he fell, launched himself across the towpath…

  Chapter Five

  ‘Dad! Coom oop, quick!’ Billy Hanney set about bringing the boat to a stop, whipping out the oil rod, winding back the speed wheel as his father squeezed up the steps past him:

  ‘What is it, Billy?’

  ‘Soomeoone’s joost joomped in the cut, up a’ead boy the bridge!’

  ‘Yew sure, boy?’