A Mistletoe Kiss (12 page)

Hetty, panting along beside him, thought this unlikely but refrained from saying so, and they continued to hurry towards the
Water Sprite
.

When they had eaten the rabbit stew and polished off Gran's famous Bakewell tart, and the visitors had left,
Gramps despatched Gareth to fetch any belongings which he might need on the journey to and from Leeds and Hetty began the part of the proceedings she disliked most: she started to empty her cabin on the butty boat.

It always surprised her how many strange things she had managed to acquire during her time aboard, and today was no exception. Birds' eggs, carefully blown and meticulously cleaned, a couple of pots of blackberry jam which she and Gran had made, a wonderfully brilliant kingfisher's feather and others from jays, pigeons and magpies were just the start of her careful hoarding. There was a corn dolly, given her by a farmer's wife for helping with their harvest, flowers which she had dried and pressed, and a great many other things. Once, her aunt had suggested she should either leave such mementos behind or throw them away, but although Hetty had only been ten at the time she had had more sense than to agree to this. Everything she brought back with her from the
Sprite
carried a memory with it, and all through the winter and the following spring she gloated over her birds' eggs, dried flowers and other treasures, valuing them for the memories they brought with them as much as the objects themselves.

By the time Gareth had explained to his mother about his new job and filled a haversack and a large canvas bag with his belongings, the butty boat cabin was cleared and ready for his occupancy. He had taken the Heskeths' advice and brought old clothes and warm ones, for though the weather was pleasant now
it would not remain so during the months ahead. They docked in Liverpool every few weeks, but quite often the turnaround might take place when the Evanses were working or shopping; at any rate, when they were not at No. 9 Salisbury Street, so it behoved Gareth to pack with care all those things which he was sure he would need.

Hetty was amused, and rather touched, to see that he was taking his engineering manuals along with him, though she doubted whether the information they contained would refer to the engines which powered the canal boats. However, she realised that Gareth was ambitious, so studying the manuals would help him when he came to apply for other and more prestigious jobs.

When Hetty had finished clearing her belongings from the cabin, it occurred to her to wonder whether Harry had really left on the spur of the moment, or whether he had planned his flight. If he had done so, the kennel would be empty, but when she opened it up she found that Harry had not lied. There was the sleeping bag which Gramps had paid for, and the oilskins which were an old set of her grandfather's. In addition, there were two skimpy, much patched jerseys, a pair of dirty, well-worn canvas trousers and some enormous wellington boots, which Hetty remembered he had slopped around in when she had first joined them.

Hetty gazed into the kennel, gnawing an uncertain lip. She supposed that the only things Harry had actually owned were the two ancient jumpers and
the canvas trousers; should she stand them on the wharf so that if he returned he would not be able to accuse them of stealing his property? Undecided, she tugged out the sleeping bag and her heart gave a little hop. Harry had always pretended to be so grown up, so superior and knowing, but there, at the back of the kennel, was a collection of objects very similar to those she had just taken from the butty cabin. Birds' feathers, some pretty stones, three freshwater oyster shells and a paper bag with several humbugs in it. Poor Harry! He had been trying to cram his childhood into the few weeks of freedom he had enjoyed both on and off the
Water Sprite
. He had pretended to laugh at her when she had shown him how what looked like a magpie's plain black feather turned a brilliant fluorescent green when the sun caught it. He had denied any interest in her pressed flowers, or her corn dolly, but all the time he had been collecting, just as she had.

Gramps came out of the cabin and Hetty called him. He came over, his brows rising. ‘What's the matter, my dear? Want another bag to put your stuff in? You always carry away with you more than you bring, and Gran's bottled some wild plums for you to take back to your aunt, so leave room for them.'

‘Right you are, Gramps,' Hetty said. ‘But what am I to do with Harry's things?' She flourished the clothing, but left Harry's collection tactfully hidden away behind the oilskins. ‘They aren't much, but they are his, and I wouldn't like him to think we'd took'em. Shall I stand them on the wharf?'

‘No indeed; they wouldn't be there by morning and
we'd never know who had pinched 'em. It isn't as though we're moored up in open country, or even beside one of the villages.' He patted his granddaughter's cheek. ‘I can see from your expression that you can't believe anyone would want such badly worn garments, but there's kids – and men for that matter – haunting the docks who'll steal anything not nailed down.'

‘Well, I can't imagine anyone wanting Harry's old jerseys and kecks,' Hetty objected. ‘It's not as if the weather's turning cold …'

‘It may not be cold yet, but folk who don't have much have to think ahead,' her grandfather assured her. ‘Believe me, when the really cold weather starts, there's kids who'll be glad to go to bed clad in every stitch they possess – every stitch they can nick for that matter. So just you shove all that stuff back into the kennel. If Harry doesn't want them, we'll turn them out on the wharf next time we moor at the ‘Pool.'

‘Right. You know best, Gramps,' Hetty said, throwing the clothing back into the kennel. Then she returned to the butty boat where Gareth was stowing away his gear, still lit up with excitement. He turned and grinned at her. ‘Thanks ever so much for thinking of me, Hetty,' he said happily. ‘I've took a look at the engine and with your grandpa's help I'll be workin' it meself in a couple of days. The firm who sold it to Mr Hesketh gave him a manual, so I've told him when we moor up for the night, I'll start studying it. I already know most of the technical terms, so I reckon by the time we reach Leeds I'll know near on as much as that feller Harry did.'

‘Well of course Harry couldn't …' Hetty began, then stopped herself. She had been about to say that Harry had been unable to read until fairly recently, and then he had never so much as opened the engine manual, saying dismissively that he did not need to do so. Hetty had guessed that he realised technical terms would be beyond his capabilities, so had not pressed him. Truth to tell, she had tried to read the manual herself, but had understood only one word in ten and had given it up as a bad job.

Now Gareth raised his eyebrows. ‘Harry couldn't what?' he asked. ‘Don't say he lost the manual?'

‘No, no, nothing of that sort,' Hetty said hurriedly; she was not good at thinking on her feet, so to speak. ‘What I meant to say was, he didn't have any patience with what he called book learning, so he didn't even bother to glance at the manual. And I have to admit he didn't seem to need it. He knew all the names of the bits and pieces under the engine cover, and which did what. To tell the truth, he was a frightful know all. Gramps was very patient with him, but it couldn't have been easy taking orders from someone young enough to be your grandson when you've spent your life on the canals and know just about everything there is to know. Yet Gramps never got impatient, not even when Harry tried to tell him something he knew well. If it had been me, I'd have reminded him he was only on board to help with the engine, but Gramps just smiled and carried on with whatever he was doing.'

Gareth chuckled. ‘Well, he won't have to put up with me knowing too much; it's likelier that I'll know
too little,' he observed. ‘I say, I love my little cabin; I can't wait to climb into my bunk when we're moored up tonight. I bet you'll miss it horribly, won't you?'

Hetty was about to reply truthfully that she would indeed when she realised that she was not nearly as unhappy at leaving the canal as she had been on previous occasions. Of course she was looking forward to seeing Lucy, and exchanging stories of their holiday adventures, but she was also looking forward to seeing Miss Preece and the Everton library. Before, the only books Hetty had been able to lose herself in were school texts, but now Miss Preece had made it plain that she could have the run of the library and read anything she chose, so long as she did so in the Reading Room. It was a shame, of course, that she could not take the books home, but she had speedily realised that this was not totally to be regretted. Had she taken the books into her aunt's sometimes chaotic house, all sorts of dreadful things might have happened: tea could be spilt over a volume, a spark from an unguarded fire might burn a hole in a precious cover, a flying foot might land on a page when a book fell to the floor, wrenching it from its place.

Besides, at home she had her chores to perform and her messages to run, whereas as soon as she entered the library a hush descended. She would greet Miss Preece politely, smile or exchange a quiet word with her assistant, select the book she wanted and make her way to the Reading Room, where she was already well known to the habitués. Then she would open her book and immediately enter a different
world. She would follow the characters through whichever Wonderland the author had chosen to depict, entranced and enchanted, yet conscious that she was learning with every page she turned.

From time to time, people she did not know would come into the Reading Room. Sometimes it would be just one visit, at other times a man or woman would come on an almost daily basis for a week or even a fortnight, but the people Hetty thought of as regulars quickly became known and recognised by her. In winter, Miss Preece had told Hetty that some of the old men, and one or two of the old women, came in to keep warm, for the old-fashioned and rather noisy radiators kept the enormous room so hot that Hetty always shed her coat before entering. Others came to follow serial stories in the periodicals, or to settle down comfortably for a good read of past copies of the
Echo
.

Now, Hetty's thoughts of her beloved library were interrupted. ‘Hetty Gilbert! I axed you if you were sorry to be leavin' the old
Water Sprite.
' It was Gareth's voice, sounding somewhat ill-used. ‘I know it ain't the same now, because your grandpa has told me that in the old days your main job was lookin' after that there horse, but even so …'

‘Sorry, Gareth, sorry; I'm afraid I was dreaming,' Hetty said apologetically. ‘Of course I'll miss the barge, but as you say, it's old Guinness I miss the most. And to tell the truth, I'm looking forward to going home so that I can visit the library, because I've missed books while I was on the canal.'

Gareth stared at her as though he suspected that she had gone raving mad. ‘Books?' he said incredulously. ‘You've missed
books?
But books is school, you little eejit. No one in their right minds even thinks about books in the school holidays!'

Hetty opened her mouth to try to explain that the books she missed were not like the ones they read in school, but more like magic doorways through which one could enter a strange and mysterious land. There, one could have adventures which few could even imagine, for they were outside the experience of any but the author. Hetty began to speak, then stopped. It was useless; Gareth would simply never understand. However, he was still looking at her enquiringly, so Hetty dredged up a reply of sorts. ‘Yes, I'll miss the
Water Sprite
and her crew like anything, but I shall keep telling myself that in less than a year I'll be back aboard,' she said briskly. ‘As for the engine, I don't think I'll ever really understand it, and I don't think Gramps does either. But now I'd best let you start loading the cargo and get back home, or else Aunt Phoebe will think I've run away to sea like horrible Harry!'

Miss Preece was in the library, sitting at her desk with a tottering pile of books on her right and a much smaller pile of request slips on her left. The books on her right were all on special order and had been sent through from the central library from what they called ‘the stack', which was where they kept books for which there was no room on the shelves. Both
Mr Gower and Miss Preece were proud of the fact that they were, in the main, able to supply all the books their borrowers ordered either from their own shelves or from the stack, even though it meant a lot of administrative work. Borrowers had to sign for rare books from the stack, but the librarians thought this a good thing since if the books were not returned within the stated period, they were easily traceable.

So Miss Preece was working away happily, glancing at the pile of books as it shrank, when Mr Gower came up to the desk. ‘I see you're busy, Miss Preece, but I've just made a pot of tea,' he said. ‘Would you like to share it with me?'

Startled, Miss Preece looked at the books still waiting to be married up with the request slips. She was about to point out that she still had a good deal of work to do before she could take her lunch break, but then changed her mind. She frequently made tea and took a cup up to Mr Gower, but this was the first time he had ever suggested doing the same in reverse. It would seem rude indeed to turn his offer down.

Accordingly, she gave him a quick little smile and stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Gower, I have to admit I'd really love a cup of tea,' she said. ‘I know it's a quiet morning, but can Miss Ryder cope if we're both in the office together?'

Miss Ryder was a trainee librarian who was spending time at the local libraries. She was a small, bespectacled girl, very serious and anxious to please, and both Mr Gower and Miss Preece found her a great help.

Now, Mr Gower gave Miss Preece a small, wintry smile and led the way into the office. Miss Preece glanced at the counter and saw the trainee standing by it, looking hopefully out through the glass doors at the sunny street; the girl had admitted she loved date-stamping the books, discussing the volumes the readers had selected and replacing the ones that had been returned. The sort of sunny day they were enjoying now would mean few people either bringing books back or borrowing new ones; Miss Ryder would probably have a pretty boring time, in fact.