The Liverpool Rose (7 page)

‘This is a change from the village, eh, Mam?’ Clem said, indicating the beautiful rural scene around them. ‘I wish we could be here always, don’t you?’

‘It’s the sort of place where I was brought up back in Ireland,’ his mother agreed. ‘The sort of place I’d have brought you up, Clem, if I’d had any choice in the matter. Your daddy always talked about renting a little farm in Connemara when the money was right, only it never seemed to be right enough and your daddy had the two of us dependent on him.’ She looked around her, contentment obvious in every line of her body, her mouth still gently smiling. ‘But there’s nothing to stop you changing your way of life,
son, because the countryside is in your blood, both on your daddy’s side and on mine. So just you forget coal mines and industry and all, and go for fresh air and a decent life.’

As she said the last words, she got to her feet and Clem suddenly knew that she was about to go, that perhaps he might never see her again. He reached out to clutch her skirt but she was fading and his hand went straight through the material as though it were no more than mist. ‘But, Mam, what sort of work can I do what’ll give me enough money to live on?’ he asked wildly, suddenly afraid of the hugeness of the world in which he must begin to make his own way. ‘I’m all by meself now, without even a roof over me head, and the only thing I know is mining – and the pit ponies, of course – and mining won’t keep me above ground and in the fresh air.’

His mother was yards away from him now, but she paused and turned back, smiling at him. ‘Your gran’daddy dug canals when he were a young man and later he took a job aboard a barge and travelled the country. Why, your own daddy helped to dig the Manchester Ship Canal and you’re young and strong . . . you’ll find your path, same as they did.’

Clem was beginning to say that he knew nothing about canals and that he doubted very much whether a boy of his age could possibly get employment where the main need was for enormous physical strength when the dream twisted, wriggled and changed completely and, even as he realised that his mother and the country scene were gone, he was seeing once more the blackness of the pit and the shaggy head and pricked ears of his favourite pit pony. He grabbed at the pony’s forelock to guide it into the mine and, at the same moment, the oppressive warmth and the
smell of coal dust hit him, causing him to recoil so violently that he woke himself up. To his infinite relief, he found he was curled up inside the hollow oak, with sunshine streaming through the branches and falling across his unprotected face.

Struggling to his knees, he peered out into the brilliant morning. The rain had cleared while he slept and a strong breeze was already drying the twigs and leaf mould underfoot. Heaving an enormous yawn, he gathered up his possessions, shoved everything into his ditty bag and set off to find himself some breakfast. He remembered, vaguely, that he had dreamed and that in his dream his mother had been advising him, but he could not for the life of him remember more than that. The river, the countryside and the conversation which they had held on the river bank had gone completely from his memory. But with his awakening on this fourth day of his adventure, he was aware, more strongly than ever, of the
rightness
of what he had done. Suddenly self-confident, he knew that he would find work which he could both do and enjoy, and that his future would be neither dark nor lonely.

Tremendously elated by the thought of the adventures he was sure would lie ahead, Clem whistled as he walked along, heading for the farmhouse on the brow of the hill where he would try to get some work and also some breakfast.

It was some weeks later that Clem came across the canal. He knew that if he followed it, it would take him to the great city of Leeds where everyone seemed to think he would find permanent work. He hated the thought of working in a factory or mill, but had common sense enough to realise that when the summer was over, there would be little or no work on
the land, particularly for a wanderer with no home of his own.

Winters, furthermore, were hard in this area and Clem had no desire to be found stiff and stark, dead under a hedge when the snows came. Neither did he intend to go back to working underground and he had a strong suspicion that if he left if too long, he would not be the only person seeking work in the city. Therefore it behoved him to follow the canal and try to get work either along the way or in Leeds itself when he reached it.

Accordingly, he took to the towpath and rapidly became fascinated both by the little villages clustered alongside the water, and by the canal barges themselves. What was more, many of the barges still used horses to tow them and it was not long before Clem’s natural love of the animals led him to gather handfuls of dandelion leaves, cow parsley and other such dainties from the verges as he passed, so that he might slip the fresh greenery to any horse he happened to meet.

He guessed that as he got nearer the city the canal would become less attractive. Already, he thought, there were more mills and warehouses alongside the banks than fields, woods and meadows. He decided that if he could get work near the canal he would do so, and one day, while sitting on the bank eating the bread and cheese with which a farmer’s wife had paid him for his help in cleaning out and repainting her milking parlour, it occurred to him that it would be grand to work on the canal itself. Astonishingly, as though the thought had been a key turning in a lock, he remembered the dream he had had after he had left the village. Everything came back to him all in an instant: his mother’s face, her gentle loving look, and
the advice she had given him. His father and grandfather had helped to dig canals and his grandfather had actually worked on a barge. Surely he could do the same? He had always loved horses and knew himself to have a way with them, so that they would obey his commands with alacrity where other people had to threaten and scold to get the same results.

He had no idea how canal folk lived, but guessed it was a hard life as well as a rewarding one. They could, to an extent, live off the land, he imagined, since there were plenty of fish in the canal, and the banks and meadows through which it passed abounded with rabbits. Furthermore, surely no one would object if a boatman helped himself to a few turnips or a nice cabbage? If he did so when the boat was tied up for the night, it seemed highly unlikely anyone would notice the loss.

Finishing his bread and cheese, Clem got up and began to move along the towpath once more. The next time he came to a lock, he would stay by it for a while, giving a hand with the lock gates and asking about the possibility of work. If he had still had no luck in a day or so, he would begin to offer his services at the mills and warehouses along the bank. But the memory of his dream was still green in his mind and filled him with hope. It was as though his mother had been advising him, wanting him to have the sort of life his forbears had enjoyed. Whistling a catchy tune beneath his breath, Clem began to walk along the towpath once more, breaking off a hazel switch and planning to try his luck at fishing when the cool of evening arrived.

It was only a day or so later that his luck changed. He was sitting in the long grass, munching a carrot from
the bunch he had pulled in a nearby field and cleaned rather doubtfully in the canal which was getting dirtier as they neared the city. He had been idly watching the approach of a sturdy canal barge, towing another boat behind it and hauled by a Clydesdale horse with a white star on its forehead and magnificent white feathering around its huge hooves. An elderly man, brown as well-tanned leather, was sauntering along beside the horse, one hand on its bridle.

As Clem watched, a figure jumped off the second boat and ran alongside the barge, coming to the other side of the horse’s head, and dragging the animal to a halt.

‘I tell you, I isn’t goin’ a foot furder,’ shouted a youth, hauling on the horse’s bridle. ‘I never said I’d stay forever, good though you’ve been to me, and now I want out. I’ve been sayin’ so for two weeks or more, and what notice have you took? Why, none, because it don’t suit your book to have no one you can put all the work on.’

The old man began to reply but he had barely got two words out when an old woman, who had been hidden from Clem’s view by a line of bushy plants ranged along the decking, appeared above them. ‘What’s up?’ she said sharply. ‘I heared you yellin’ your head off, young Bert, but I don’t recall as you’ve ever telled us before that you wanted out. Norrin’ so many words, at any rate.’

The old man glanced at the woman, then turned towards the youth once more. ‘It’s your right to go if you’ve a mind, Bert,’ he said heavily. ‘But you must know your Aunt Priddy and meself can’t manage
The Liverpool Rose
and the butty boat without you to give us a hand through the locks. If you’ll just wait ’til we can get someone else . . .’

‘I ain’t waitin’,’ the youth shouted angrily. His face, already red with temper, became dangerously empurpled, and Clem thought for one awful moment that he was going to strike the older man. ‘I telled you a week gone, Jake, that I was sick of the bleedin’ canal and the bleedin’ boat and the locks and the water and the bleedin’ horse an’ all.’ Here he aimed a spiteful kick at one of the horse’s enormous fetlocks and Clem, who could never bear to see an animal ill treated, jumped up from his nest in the grass and hurried forward, determined to interfere should it become necessary.

However, the horse tossed its head and rolled one pained eye in the youth’s direction, before shifting his hoof and bringing it down upon Bert’s foot. Clem saw with pleasure that the horse had no idea why the youth suddenly gave an agonised scream but continued to stand patiently upon the foot while its owner shrieked imprecations and tugged futilely at the bridle. The horse continued placidly swishing its tail and staring mildly ahead. ‘Ow! Ow! Gerroff me foot, you ugly bastard!’ shrieked Bert, trying in vain to extricate himself. ‘Oh, I’ll bleedin’ beat you to a pulp when I get free! Jake, make the swine move or I swear I’ll scupper the barge and butty boat, an’ you along with ’em!’

The older man gave a grim smile but obligingly backed up the horse and watched, with what seemed like cynical amusement, as Bert sank on to the towpath, wrenching off his boot and examining the split and purpled flesh beneath. ‘You asked for that, young Bert,’ he said dryly as the lad began to swear once more. ‘Well, you’re no use to me now wi’ a broken foot so you might as well go back to the mill and see how keen they’ll be to employ a one-legged man.’ He saw Clem
standing watching and laughed aloud as Bert began to shriek and swear once more, his rage encompassing the boats, their owners and the horse. ‘You look a likely lad,’ the old man said amiably to Clem. ‘We’ll be needin’ someone to help with the butty boat, because it takes Priddy and me all our time to manage
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as well as loading and unloading, seeing to the horse of a night, and so on aboard both boats.’ He chuckled. ‘How do you fancy a life on the ocean wave? It’s all found and a few pence over, mebbe, at each end of the voyage. D’you like horses?’

For answer, Clem walked over to the horse, carefully skirting the hunched figure of the unfortunate Bert, and held out the last of his carrots. While the horse munched with drooling enthusiasm, Clem rubbed the satiny head beneath the forelock, smiling into the kind eyes well above his own. ‘I worked with ponies for years down the pit and liked them a good deal better than many a miner,’ he said. ‘This chap’s just like a pony only about four times the size, so I reckon we’d get along fine. What’s more, me grandfather worked on a canal boat when he were a young man, and years back his father helped to
dig
this canal. I’m strong and keen, but you’d have to explain what I’d need to do, ’cos though I’ve been opening and closing the locks for any boat which could use a hand, I’ve not worked aboard one afore. D’you mean it, Mister? Can I really work for you?’

The old man grinned at him. ‘You can call me Jake and me lady wife Priddy. Our name’s Pridmore but us boat people are an easygoin’ lot and don’t go in for titles nor stand on ceremony,’ he said, then turned back towards the barge. ‘Priddy!’ he roared, and immediately the woman, who had gone below while the argument took place, reappeared.

‘Yes?’ she said baldly. ‘I ain’t
that
deaf. You bellow like a fog ‘orn, old Jake.’

While he explained to his wife that he had offered ‘this young feller-me-lad’ a job, Clem was taking covert stock of Bert, who was still sitting on the towpath, nursing his foot and eyeing the barge, occupants and even the horse, with considerable venom. He was a big chap, probably six inches taller than Clem himself, and at least two years older. He wore a chequered open-necked shirt and moleskin breeches, and his hair, which stuck up like a gorse bush, looked as though it had not been combed for a week. His face was broad, his brow low and his eyes small and furtive. Clem decided that no matter how strong he might be, he was somewhat lacking in intelligence. I’ll do as well as him aboard the boat even if I’m not as strong because I’ll work out ways of doing the job which won’t need so much muscle, he decided. Yes, if they’re willing to take me, I’ll give it a go.

He had not been attending closely to the conversation taking place between the two old people, but guessed from their broad smiles that they had decided, as he had, to give it a go. Priddy disappeared into the bowels of the boat once more and Jake turned back to Clem, repeating his earlier invitation to join the crew of
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. Clem was beginning to thank him and to shoulder his ditty bag before climbing aboard when Bert lurched to his feet, his face beginning to redden once more.

‘Don’t you dare set foot aboard that bleedin’ boat or I’ll perishin’ flatten you!’ he said threateningly, limping over to the boat and raising one meaty fist. ‘I know I said I were leavin’, and so I were ‘til that evil, misbegotten bugger crippled me like he done. Now I
ain’t got no choice, I’ll have to stay aboard ‘til me foot heals. They won’t take me in the mill whiles I’m lame as a butcher’s dog.’