Narrow Margins (14 page)

The day was a complete whirl of loud people and cramped conditions on Happy, but it was nice to see friendly faces. I hugged Amelia extra hard as they left, both of us in tears. But we had arranged for her and Huw to come down again in two weeks' time so we both had something to look forward to.

After we had waved them off from the car park, we wandered back to the boat. Happy seemed very large and very quiet. I missed them, I missed being able to see them, especially Amelia, on a daily basis. I certainly missed Charlie, a telephone call with family is never the same as actually being able to sit and argue with them in person. We were all quiet and a little glum as we made our way to bed that evening.

Thursday was Sam's first day at school. He wasn't happy about it and neither was I. Strangely, I had got used to having him around at all hours of the day. I was puzzled by this, back at the house I couldn't wait to get rid of the kids and have some time to myself, but I knew that I would really miss his high-pitched voice giving me long, involved and completely incoherent explanations of whatever complicated game he was currently involved with. I didn't want to think about the day ahead, quiet and devoid of mass stickiness.

Even though the school run was 120 miles a day, we had elected not to keep him out any longer. If we could have guaranteed that we would get through Salters Lode this coming weekend we might have put it off for another week, but common sense reared its ugly head and we realised that we might not get through till next week, so we elected to drive the 60 miles there and back in the morning and again in the afternoon.

Sam was quite happy to wait another week, and explained his position to us, at length, and became morose when he finally accepted that he did actually have to go to school and couldn't spend the rest of his life in a nest with his computer, or sitting on the top of the boat surrounded by small plastic figures, re-enacting fantasy battles between massed ranks of Pokémon and a couple of Amelia's old Barbies (the Barbies always lost, there had originally been five of them, but he was now down to three, two having plummeted to a watery grave as punishment for losing yet another fight). No doubt we will have the same argument with him in ten years' time (possibly minus the Barbies – or maybe not), but we won this one – for now – next time we may find ourselves in a weaker position.

I listened to Sam's piping voice receding down the road toward the car, and for the first time ever, I had the boat to myself. I managed to cope with the silence for about the length of time it takes to drink a cup of coffee and then, unable to take it any more, I went shopping.

March does not have good shoe shops, so that was a bit disappointing. Their book shop was also less than inspiring and as I was beginning to wonder if anybody in East Anglia read anything other than crime or romance novels, or wore boots – come on, people, winter's coming, surely some of you wear boots? I realised that Geoff, at least, would be happy that I wasn't replacing my hard lost shoe collection, or altering the trim of the boat with another three pounds of paper. So with that reassuring thought in mind, I decided to buy Sam a new DVD for when he got home. By the time I left Woolies, I had five, four of them for me.

When Geoff got back to the boat, I was sitting at our wobbly table reading a canal boat magazine and doing an excellent job of ignoring all the useful things I could be doing. Sam, Geoff reported, had not gone into school well, he was clingy and upset, and I felt guilty all over again that we had uprooted him from a really good school that he loved and palmed him off on one that was obviously going to make him extremely unhappy.

Geoff went off to pick Sam up at two o'clock and I spent the next two hours worrying about the horrible things that had surely happened to him during the day. I became so creative with the terrible possibilities that the only course of action was to spring clean the bathroom.

While the thought of Sam's possible terrors during his first day upset me, they paled into insignificance when I worked out that I had been cleaning the bathroom for over an hour and had completely failed to make a noticeable difference. That
really
upset me.

Father and son arrived back around four-thirty. I could hear Sam's voice long before they actually came through the door. Rushing over to him I gave him a hug and asked him how his day had gone. He looked at me as though I was mad, shrugged, said it was OK and went to turn on the telly, demanding snacks over his shoulder as he went.

Geoff explained that he had had a chat with his teacher and she had assured him that after the first five minutes Sam had found a friend, and settled down. They had had some ups and downs with him during the day, but mostly it had been either frustration at not knowing the routine or moments of insecurity. They firmly expected that he would be just one of the gang by the end of the next week.

Chapter Fourteen
Moving On

W
ALKING ON FRIDAY MORNING
, I was quite surprised to realise that we had been moored for five days and hadn't expired from terminal boredom – far from it – and it was once again time to phone Salters Lode and see if Mother Nature was going to allow us to continue with our journey.

No authority in March seemed to mind that we had overstayed our 48 hours. All week, other boats had been coming and going and had given us the same worrying news, those that had come from Salters Lode warned that the tidal stretch of the Ouse was running fast, and, without exception, they all cast a worried eye over Happy and had said that we were going to have problems.

One weathered, bearded and be-hatted gent wandered up and remarked, ‘You lot going through Salters in that?'

‘Erm ... Yes.'

‘Got a good engine, has she?'

‘No, not really, more like two matchsticks and a rubber band.'

‘Phew...' He took his hat off and ran his hand through his thatch of white hair. ‘Hope you got some life jackets, you're going to be thrown about like a cat in a washing machine – good luck.' And leaving us with that stunning mental image he turned and climbed back aboard his 40-foot, high-powered boat and puttered away up the river.

Geoff and I looked at each other.

‘Did you know there was likely to be a problem at Salters Lode?' I frowned at him.

He, at least, had the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘There's only a problem if the section is running fast, you have to make a sharp right-hand turn out of the lock and if the tide is going out, it's a real bugger to turn into with an underpowered boat, and if the tide is coming in then you just get picked up and taken, very quickly, down toward Denver Sluice, and with a boat this size and the engine ...' he paused.

‘So the answer is bloody well “yes” then, isn't it!' I snapped at him. ‘We're all going to die, aren't we? We are either swept inland or swept out to sea – I'm not sure I want to do this.'

‘Look,' Geoff soothed, ‘hundreds of boats go through these locks every season; they wouldn't let us through if there was a problem.'

‘Geoff,' I assumed the ‘I told you so' position. ‘In case you haven't noticed, we have been here for the best part of a week, and they didn't let us through.'

Geoff grinned. ‘Think of it as going over the falls in a barrel,' he laughed, ‘if nothing else, it will be exciting and if we survive we will have something to tell our grandchildren.' He took one look at my panicked expression and legged it before I could pour what was left of my coffee over his head.

I leaned my forehead against the wall and listened to him phoning the lock. Damn. They were going to let us through, first boat through on Saturday. I even gave considerable thought to just staying put and living in March; it seemed like a nice place.

The run to Salters Lode Lock takes about a day and we had been assured it was very pretty. Helen had phoned me that morning and, as she and Dave had found themselves without much to do that day, they had decided to take a leisurely run down a day early and would actually be with us that evening. Good, someone to give my last will and testament to.

Well Creek wanders gently through open countryside interspersed with little groups of nicely kept houses, the sun shone and lots of people waved. With the summer holidays well and truly over, we found that we had the creek pretty much to ourselves. There was only one lock between March and Salters Lode, which, after hearing what we were going to have to face, held no terrors at all.

We were a little nervous that Marmont Priory Lock was possibly closed, having tried to call the lock-keeper on several occasions but getting only a ringing tone. Luckily the lock-keeper, like all the others we had met, was helpful and not in the least perturbed that an odd boat had just turned up unannounced. After a short investigation it worked out that the phone number listed in our old Imray Fenland Waterways map was wrong. He was a nice guy, letting the incompetent nutters through anyway, which was good of him.

There are a series of bridges as you approach the Mullicourt Aqueduct. These seem to take spiteful delight in getting lower and lower, until at one point Geoff was crouched right down on the stern, peering over the roof and reaching up to hold the tiller. I had been getting a little edgy as we closed on the Aqueduct; I'm incredibly terrified of heights and had been having horrible visions of a steel monstrosity along the lines of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct on the Llangollen Canal, which I had vowed never to cross. The Pontcysyllte Aqueduct stands 150 feet high and your narrow boat has merely inches between you and certain death (a 23 tonne lump of steel, falling that far, is NOT going to bounce... or fly).

The guide book states that the Mullicourt Aqueduct is merely 22 metres high (75 feet). I was breaking out in a cold sweat just thinking about it and had vowed to just stay in the cabin and stick my head between my legs or breathe into a brown paper bag or something.

Geoff was a little confused and kept muttering about the land being so flaming flat, how on earth could they have a rise of 75 feet, it just wasn't possible.

As we emerged from a very low bridge, I made a break for the bedroom knowing that the monstrous aqueduct was just on the other side. After a couple of minutes, Geoff called me out to have a look; he could hardly speak for laughing.

‘Come and have a look at this,' he shouted down.

‘What do you mean “come and have a look at this”?' I shouted back. ‘You know I hate heights, don't be so mean.'

He laughed some more. ‘I think the book got it wrong, come and have a look.'

Wondering what was going on, I emerged into the sunlight and looked around, frowning.

‘Where is it?'

I had been expecting an extended, slim, water-filled channel heading off over some huge expanse of nothing. What was actually there was a bridge with rails. Happy was going to have trouble fitting entirely on it without having one of her ends hanging off onto normal waterway
and
the wretched thing was only about six foot off the ground.

‘I think they missed a decimal point in the book,' Geoff snickered. It was difficult to categorise the emotion, but I think I will label it ‘cheated out of an opportunity to be really terrified'. I looked ahead to where Happy's nose was gently ploughing its way over the bridge.

‘I'll go and put the kettle on,' I sighed and wandered off.

We moored up outside Salters Lode at three forty-five. Helen and Dave arrived at ten past four, fantastic timing. Helen leapt out of the car and bounced into the boat, leaving Dave to sort out all the bags. She wandered through the boat making appreciative noises and putting the kettle on as she went. Dave on the other hand peered through the doorway, gave me a wave and then backed out again to talk to Geoff.

After the hugs, I asked, ‘Is he all right?' indicating Dave who was still chatting away to Geoff and casting anxious glances at the boat.

‘What?' Helen glanced up at her other half and frowned. ‘Oh they're probably talking engines and things, he's OK.'

Helen and Dave are both paramedics. Helen is small, with long dark hair and a mouth that never stops, she is full of nervous energy and is constantly on the move, even when sitting down, arms waving in time to the conversation, legs jiggling, feet tapping, most of the time she wears me out just looking at her. Dave, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. A paramedic of long standing, he says he may have fallen in love with her at the moment she left him standing on the side of the road. He was training her in advanced techniques for ambulance drivers. All Helen remembers him saying is, ‘Go over there,' and pointing to the opposite side of the field about half a mile away, so she did. Dave had got out of the ambulance to open the gate and she had driven straight past him and stopped just where he had indicated. By the time he caught up with her, he wasn't happy, but he could see she might be interesting to get to know a little better.

Dave is the sort that you definitely want to scrape you off the road after ploughing your car into a tree. Solid, calm, huge grin, about six foot tall with a reassuring girth; a truly lovely guy. However, this is not a man that fits easily into a narrow boat. He finally joined us and stood awkwardly in the gangway, head tilted and body wedged sideways between inconvenient bits of furniture. He looked uncomfortable and worried. Helen, giving his tense body and worried look the once-over, pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then stated with her usual tact and empathy: ‘I didn't know you were claustrophobic.' Poor Dave, two days of hell coming up for him (well he married her!)

As it was a lovely evening, we headed outside with a large amount of meat, alcohol and cushions stolen from the boat. Sam didn't actually get to eat much, poor boy, as Helen made him laugh so hard, he kept choking on his dinner. I finally had to call a stop to it all after one particularly vigorous tickling and screaming moment had left him laughing so hard he had actually wet himself slightly for the first time in two years and had to go and have a shower. Helen did have the grace to stop after that.

That evening is still one of my favourite memories. It was warm, the stars were out and the evening was made complete with burnt, unidentifiable barbecue food and good company; we laughed a lot, drank quite a lot (except Geoff who doesn't drink at all – he spent the evening relaxing with numerous cups of tea while regarding the rest of us with amused tolerance) and finally staggered off to bed in the small hours, well, in all honesty, Helen and Dave staggered off to bed – I had to be carried, whoops.

The next morning, while, yet again, I was nursing a niggling hangover, it was decided that Geoff and Dave would take Happy to the mooring, and Helen and I would go ahead and make sure that everything was ready for them to arrive.

Sam elected to stay with Dad, and we all headed off in separate directions. I would really like to be able to insist that I'm not entirely sure why we did it this way, but I know that Helen and I wanted to have a day shopping, drinking coffee and chatting. Getting rid of all the lads was at the forefront of our minds. I have always felt a little guilty about this as I was fully aware that Dave and Geoff didn't actually know each other very well, Dave had never been on a narrow boat and they were just about to face that nasty turn on to the fast-running, tidal section of the Ouse.

I was dreading it far more than I had let on to Geoff, so when Dave offered, with only slight hesitance and a fair amount of prodding from Helen, to go with Geoff, I completely leapt at the idea and walked (we almost ran actually) away without a backward glance. How mean is that?

Helen and I were appalled at our horrific ability to abandon our loved ones and run away giggling but as we were discussing it, while sitting in the sun, outside Starbucks, over a large Peppermint Mocha, I really couldn't find it in me to care. Anyway, I figured that if they got into difficulties Dave could fix them up and, as Helen said, you should never let guilt get in the way of a coffee and chocolate fix.

An hour later, Helen and I were still sitting in the sun with yet another obscene, cream-covered coffee and I wondered if I should phone Geoff and see how he was getting on. I decided that, if he was in difficulties, a phone call would probably make it worse, so I bravely and charitably decided to leave him to it.

After a couple more hours shopping and a quick trip to the pub, we decided that it was probably time to check out the mooring. I had only been there once before and the 15-minute journey between Ely and Stretham took us over an hour because I kept getting lost and dragging us off down side streets.

We finally managed to locate our mooring just in time to watch Happy, luckily with Dave and Geoff still in attendance, pulling around the corner. Grabbing ropes and hammering in stakes, everybody rushed about ‘doing things' and it was at least another half an hour before we finally sat down to take stock and ask Geoff and Dave how their day had gone.

I noticed that Happy had huge smears of mud all over her roof and down her sides; Geoff and Dave had it in their hair, down their backs and all over their shoulders. It transpired that Salters Lode is another guillotine lock, but unlike all the others we had been through, this one, instead of dripping a gentle rain of water and weed, embeds itself into a muddy silty bottom so, as it comes up, it drips huge dollops of mud, water and weed. I can't say I was sorry to miss that, but I did manage to keep a straight face, mostly ... I had to go and find an important job to do – out of sight.

Later, I asked Geoff how the turn had gone. He told me that it had been pretty horrendous but not as bad as he had feared, the tide had been coming in and had whipped Happy's nose out of the lock and into mid-stream, she had travelled a little faster than Geoff was comfortable with for a while, but then had settled down and they had entered Denver Sluice at a pretty normal pace. When asked how Dave had coped, Geoff's expression grew thoughtful.

‘I don't think he'll ever do it again; he certainly didn't enjoy it, and oh ...' he looked at me sideways. ‘How was your day's
shopping
?'

I winced at the emphasis he had managed to put on the word
shopping
but decided to play dumb.

‘Oh, you know same old, same old.' Damn, hadn't got away with that one either.

For the first time since he had arrived, over 24 hours previously, Herbert finally took an interest in proceedings, hauling himself out of his already stinking pit and spending a good half hour pottering up and down the riverbank sniffing and exploring. Herbert, as I have stated before, is old. He smells and dribbles and when introduced to friends and visitors the first question they always ask when they see him is ‘what exactly is that?' but however old and stinky he is, we have had him a fair while and he is part of the family (like an ageing, incontinent aunt who you would like to put in a home but no one will take on).