‘I think you did exactly right, Mrs Figgett,’ Sally said earnestly. ‘Lizzie will be ever so grateful to you for saving Sausage and Mash. In fact, I sure she’d happily give you the hens to keep for your own, because she’ll have nowhere to put them.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ the little woman said, looking vastly relieved. ‘They won’t be no one’s Christmas dinner while they’re under my roof!’ And with that she waddled back into her own house.
‘Well, I’m real glad the hens are safe,’ Sally said frankly as she accompanied Geoff to Burlington Street. ‘But it fair gives me the willies, knowin’ the old devil’s livin’ right opposite me. I suppose he’s
searchin’ the city for Lizzie.’ She shuddered. ‘I pray to God he don’t find her!’
Clem, trudging along the towpath with a hand hooked into the ring of Hal’s bit and Brutus walking so close that he could feel the dog’s warmth against his knee, was scarcely conscious that it would soon be Christmas, nor that the rain had started once more and was driving coldly against his face. All he could think of was the need to hurry, hurry, hurry. He knew that Hal was doing his best to keep the barge moving, even though there were still considerable areas of the canal iced over, so that the craft could not round the corners as neatly as usual, though the locks, he thanked God, were clear.
On board
The Liverpool Rose,
Jake was as aware as Clem himself of the need to move swiftly, though Priddy, now in charge of the butty boat, had told him that he was probably worrying unduly.
‘You said yourself that of the dozen or so boats moored alongside the canal last night, she could have sneaked aboard any one,’ she had reminded him when she had tried to persuade him to call a halt while they had a bite of dinner. ‘You’re lookin’ on the black side, Clem, and no good ever came of that. After all, most folk on the canal would give a hand to a gal in trouble. In fact there’s only one crew what moored up in the ‘Pool last night that I’d not trust to take care of
The Liverpool Rose,
even fully loaded.’
‘But Prid, canal folk is law-abiding, I’ve heard you say so a hundred times. I think most of ’em would have took Lizzie’s side, gone to the scuffers with her, done something positive to help. There’s only one lot who would have shove her on board and taken her away for their own ends, though heaven knows what
those might be. That’s why I don’t want to stop, not a moment longer than we have to.’
So they had eaten bacon sandwiches followed by chunks of bread and honey as they travelled, never neglecting to ask every craft that passed whether they had seen a young girl with a long, blonde plait aboard a vessel heading towards Leeds. All the replies had been in the negative, but that did not stop the Pridmores and Clem from asking, though as the day wore on there were fewer and fewer boats actually traversing the canal. Most of them were getting a good mooring so that they could enjoy Christmas amongst friends with the possibility of a jolly evening spent at the nearest public house before the holiday closed down the inns and alehouses.
Clem knew that they would have to moor up for the night since it would not be fair on Hal, Jake and Priddy to try to press on during the hours of darkness. Besides, doing so might well mean that they missed seeing the very craft Lizzie was on, for they could scarcely wake the crew of every boat they passed to enquire whether they had a passenger aboard. And tomorrow, Clem reflected, the chances were that no boat would be stirring which would make their search considerably easier. On Christmas Day, the boat people would welcome friends dropping in to exchange the compliments of the season and to share a glass or two and a chat. Yes, tomorrow would be a good day to continue their search.
They had passed through Burscough earlier in the day, without stopping, Clem having ascertained as he led Hal past the Farmer’s Arms, by the New Lane Swing Bridge, that none of the boats moored alongside were those for which he searched. As they passed the cottages on New Lane, he glanced sideways, as he
always did, at Paddy’s little place. For some months now it had been empty, the old couple who had rented it from her having moved further along the canal to Appersley Bridge to live with their married daughter. Priddy had talked vaguely of the possibility of re-letting it, but Clem did not think she would do so. He did not imagine that the Pridmores meant to retire while they were still hale and hearty, but he knew that Priddy looked forward to furnishing the place so that when they finally did, they could simply move into the premises which had housed members of the Pridmore family for many years.
However, Burscough having passed by in the grey afternoon, the long run to the Wigan locks and swing bridges lay ahead, and Clem could only hope that the Wigan Wolves would be in their own homes rather than haunting the canal. After all, there was little traffic for them to prey upon and the rain, which had turned into a steady and unrelenting downpour, was surely enough to put off the most determined thief.
Events soon proved him right. They passed through the area in deepening dusk, having to light all their lanterns to see their way, and it was with considerable relief that Clem heard Jake shout to him to moor up under the big clump of willows which edged the water meadows, some way past the last bridge. He was eager to get on, and knew that Jake and Priddy sympathised, but he could tell by Hal’s lowered head and slowing gait that the big horse was nearly done and must have rest and decent stabling on such a night. So they moored
The Liverpool Rose
up against the bank and Clem unfastened the tow rope and led the big horse across to the farmer’s barn which they used when in the area and which was no more than ten minutes’ walk from the canal. Once
inside and out of the rain, Clem shed his jacket and cap and began the serious work of rubbing Hal down until the horse’s rain-darkened coat was no more than damp and he could tell from the feel of it that blood, sluggish from the cold, was beginning to circulate freely once more. Brutus, who had been rolling in the hay to get some of the rain off his own shaggy coat, sat up and looked hopeful as Clem tipped oats, chopped straw, clover, beans and dried pea fodder into the manger. The big dog adored oats and would happily crunch up a mouthful of them if given the opportunity. He was also very fond of chopped sugar beet, so Clem fished around in the sack of food, found a few withered little squares, and let the dog pick them daintily out of his palm, enjoying the warmth of Brutus’s soft tongue as he finished every last fragment.
Once or twice he had wondered whether the dog might be more comfortable sharing the horse’s stabling for the night but Brutus, so close to Clem that he could feel every movement of the dog’s big body, always left the stable when he did and accompanied him back to the boat. Tonight was no exception. Soon the whole family, including the dog, settled down in the brightly lit cabin to enjoy their evening meal and then get ready for the night.
‘There’s more rain on the wind,’ Jake said later as he stepped on to the moonlit deck, the downpour having ceased for the moment. ‘But there’s some bitter cold ahead, if you ask me. It’s clear enough now but it’ll change during the hours of darkness, you mark my words. We’ll move on as soon as there’s enough light to steer by.’
Clem and Brutus went to their tiny sleeping cabin and despite Clem’s worries and fears – or perhaps
because of them – he slept almost immediately, dropping into a deep, though troubled sleep which was enlivened the night long by hideous dreams in which he was constantly just missing Lizzie and watching in helpless horror, as she fell deeper and deeper into trouble. Indeed, so bad were the dreams that he was glad to get up and begin to prepare for the day ahead, well before the sky had begun to grey in the east. Walking to the stable to fetch Hal, he thought that Jake had been wrong in his weather forecast. After the extreme cold of the past few weeks, the air on his face felt almost balmy. Abruptly, and for no good reason, he suddenly felt full of hope. ‘We’re goin’ to find her, old feller,’ he said to the dog trotting at his side. ‘And she’ll be all right and we’ll all share a grand Christmas in the good old
Liverpool Rose
.’ And with these words, he entered the barn and the day’s work began.
Lizzie woke late on Christmas morning. She had expected to be bored by having to spend the whole of Christmas Eve hiding away in the fleeces but in fact had quite enjoyed the enforced rest. She managed to wriggle her way through the cargo until she could lie with her gaze on a level with one of the eyelets through which she got an excellent view of the passing scene. Being winter, and still extremely cold, the view might have seemed restricted to some, fringed as it was by frozen reeds and grass starched with frost, but to Lizzie it had the charm of novelty and what with passing craft and little villages, fields of sheep and woods and valleys, she managed to enjoy the day.
When night time came she waited for the gentle rocking motion to stop and indeed it had done so at a
small village. But the stop had been a short one only and after no more than twenty minutes they had set off again and the boat continued to move forward, hour after hour, until at last in sheer weariness she had fallen asleep.
Now, she was surprised to find that the boat was motionless and that silence reigned. The crew had decided not to travel right through the night, she supposed, but had merely pressed on to some pre-selected destination. However, she had expected them to be up by now since she felt sure the morning was well advanced. She had thought they’d be making preparations for their Christmas dinner and probably cooking – and eating – a hearty breakfast, but clearly this was not the case. She lay for a little while, gazing up at the green canvas above her head, and then realised that there was something odd about the light which filtered through to her. It was suffused by a darker shade, as though someone had laid another covering over the canvas one she was growing to know so well, and presently, curiosity got her out of her nest in the fleeces and brought her to the fastenings at the end of the butty boat. Peering through the eyelets, she beheld a white world. As far as the eye could see, the country was completely blanketed with snow. Half horrified, half entranced, Lizzie unlaced the fastenings and slid out on to the tiny deck. She got carefully down on to the towpath and saw at once that they were in wild and uninhabited country, though there was a small stable-like building made from bales of straw piled one upon the other and roofed with canvas where, she supposed, the horse must be spending the night.
Looking around at the bleakness of moors and hills, Lizzie shivered. She had been half tempted to
slip quietly away and find help in some hamlet close to the canal, but clearly this was not an option. She would simply have to throw herself on the mercy of the canal boat’s crew and hope they would understand her predicament and allow her to remain on board until they reached a town or village where she might go to the authorities and explain what had happened.
Accordingly, she walked alongside
The Singing Lark,
climbed on to the deck and rapped, as hard as she dared, on the wooden doors of the cabin. This elicited no response at first, but upon her repeating her knock, a long moan issued forth, followed by a grumbling masculine voice complaining that his head was sore as a bear’s, and that he was sure it waren’t mornin’ yet, not by a long chalk it waren’t.
‘It is morning,’ Lizzie called in a small, apologetic voice. ‘I dunno what time it is but it’s broad daylight and there’s snow.’ Even as she spoke, big, feathery flakes began to descend once more, looking grey against the whiteness of the sky overhead, and the voice from within the cabin could be heard adjuring his companion to ‘gerrout of his bleedin’ pit and set a match to the fire afore they all fruz to death’.
Lizzie, listening, felt half inclined to scoot for the hills, despite the cold, but then the owner of the voice thrust the cabin door open and appeared on the deck. He was a jovial, red-faced man, probably in his mid-thirties, clad in the boatmen’s usual rig-out and with a broad smile bisecting his face. ‘Well, if we ain’t in luck, Reuben,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Here’s a beautiful young gal, come a-callin’ to wish us the compliments o’ the season and offer us a nice hot breakfast.’ He winked at Lizzie as he said this. ‘I’ve gorra gerrim out o’ that bed so’s I can light the fire and
begin to fry bacon,’ he confided, lowering his voice. He jerked his thumb at the cabin behind him. ‘Yon slug-a-bed is me brother, Reuben, and I’m Abe, short for Abraham.’ He chuckled. ‘Our mam were a good Christian so all of us kids had biblical names.’
‘I’m Lizzie Devlin,’ she said. ‘How d’you do, Mr . . .?
‘Call me Abe, like everyone else does,’ the man said. He glanced up at the now swiftly falling flakes. ‘By Jupiter, a white Christmas, eh? Now where’s your craft, lass? ’Cos there ain’t a farm for miles, as I know on, and you can’t ‘ave sprung out o’ the canal like some perishin’ mermaid!’
‘Oh! To tell you the truth, I came aboard your butty boat,’ Lizzie mumbled, half afraid that the man’s friendly attitude would change upon hearing this revelation, but if anything, his smile broadened.
‘Well, I’ll be dommed! We gorra stowaway,’ he said gleefully, throwing the words back over his shoulder towards where his brother was slowly unwinding himself from his cocoon of blankets. ‘But why, lass?’ His eyes sharpened suddenly, looking less friendly. ‘You ain’t escapin’ from the law, are you?’
‘No, no,’ Lizzie said hastily. She realised that it was not necessary, or not now at any rate, to go into the whole story of her flight from home. It would probably be wisest, at this stage, to prevaricate a little. ‘My uncle’s gorrin’ a great rage with me because I were late comin’ in from a dance, so I lit out before he could beat the living daylights out o’ me. He chased me down to the canal and – and – I’ve a friend with a butty boat . . . I got aboard and snuggled down in the fleeces, thinkin’ it was me pal’s boat, only – only – this morning I saw the name and realised . . .’
‘. . . realised you’d made a mistake,’ a voice interpolated from the cabin as another man emerged on to
the tiny deck. ‘Well, lass, you couldn’t have come at a better time, I’ll say that for you. We’re a three-man crew as a rule – you need three to see a barge and a butty boat through the locks – but our younger brother’s in ‘ospital. He fell on the ice and broke his thigh bone – too much Guinness, I reckon – so we’re muddlin’ along wi’ just the two of us. If you’ve a mind to work your passage, then you’re welcome as water in a desert. What do you say?’