The Narrowboat Girl (29 page)

‘So did plenty of others. I’m not the only chap in England who’s terrified of sleep, you know. Did you lose anyone in the war?’

‘Yes, sir. My father. At least – no, well he didn’t die in the war . . .’

Roland paused, a spoonful of egg in mid-air. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘He didn’t die in the war. It just felt as if ’e did – in a way.’

‘Yes.’ He pointed the spoon at her. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. You’re a sharp girl, Nelson.’

After a moment he said, ‘I suppose you find me a useless piece of goods. The way I’ve never picked up.’

‘No, sir.’ Not useless. What was more puzzling to her was that there was no
necessity
for him to work. It went against everything she had grown up used to.

‘Don’t pretend to me, Nelson, please. I have buried myself alive here. Buried in the safety of mother love and a full belly. But d’you know what?’

He waited for her to speak.

‘What – sir?’

‘I almost think that one day I shall leave here. I shall do it. Resurrect myself. Live.’

Maryann said nothing, not knowing what to say. She picked up his shoes and laid them straight on the gold carpet. They were very big, moulded touchingly into the shape of his feet.

‘D’you think I could manage it? I shall go to . . . to, let’s say, Algeciras. Yes. What about that?’

‘I – I don’t know where that is.’

‘It’s somewhere Johnny always wanted to go, you know. Don’t know why now. Its name seemed to have a magic for him. Algeciras . . .’ He drifted off into silence. Often he couldn’t finish a conversation, lost the thread of it somewhere.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s all a great pity.’

That afternoon when Maryann had finished her lunch-time duties she went up to change. Hers was a small attic room, with a rug on the bare floorboards, but with a high window facing over the drive and she had grown very fond of it. She had few possessions, but over the years had accumulated things to decorate the walls; pictures from magazines of soft-faced, smiling ladies with silken clothes. She loved to look at them and imagine dressing up like that herself. And now spring was here she had gathered a little posy of flowers from the garden. Last time she had been out, as she sometimes did in the evening, she had come across Roland, walking up from the lower end pushing a wheelbarrow. Usually if she wanted flowers she asked Sid or Wally. This time though, she had not even had to ask. Roland had lowered the handles of the barrow, stepped over and picked several sprigs of orange flower which he presented to her with a shy gallantry.

‘There you are. I expect you’d like those. All women like flowers, don’t they?’

She’d thanked him, startled. The flowers were still sitting in the jar in her room and the scent of them came to her powerfully every time she went in. Poor Master Roland, she thought, smiling at them. His awkwardness had touched her. What would become of him?

She changed out of the grey dress and white cap and apron which made up her morning uniform and put on her one summer frock, a cotton dress in a pretty blue floral print which Pamela Musson had handed on to her, and put some money in her purse. She now earned ten shillings a week at Charnwood House, but apart from a few small necessities found little to spend her money on, and she had savings of almost thirty pounds which she kept in her room, wrapped in an old handkerchief. She had long grown out of her boots bought for working on the cut, so she kept her black work shoes on, picked up her cardigan and set off downstairs. She planned to walk into Banbury and post another note she had written to Tony. Of course, the family could have moved house by now for all she knew, but every couple of months she dropped him a few lines, and included messages for Billy. It was hard to believe that Billy must be nearly ten by now – and Tony was old enough to start work. Billy had most likely forgotten who she was, but even if that was true, she wanted her brothers to know she still thought of them and cared for them.

Carrying the letter she crept down the attic stairs, then the back stairs to the kitchen, where she found Cook dozing on an upright chair by the window, her head sagging on to her chest. Sensing someone standing close to her she woke with a start and looked, for a few seconds, quite demented.

‘Oh! Maryann you didn’ ’alf make me jump. Ooh my word!’ she grumbled, clutching her chest. ‘What’re you creeping about like that for? I thought you was off out.’

‘Where’s Evan?’ Maryann whispered.

‘Oh ’e’s gorn – ’alf ’n hour back I should think.’

‘Oh good. That’s awright.’ She felt she was breathing more easily. ‘I’ll be off myself then.’

She walked down the drive of Charnwood House, along the scented border of flowers, between the tall elms, all pushing out fresh green leaves, and on to the side lane that, after about half a mile, joined the main road to Banbury. At the road she stopped for a moment, emerging from the shade of the trees, put her head back and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face and arms. It was a warm, calm afternoon and she breathed in deeply, luxuriating in a few hours of freedom.

She walked quite briskly along the road, bordered on each side by hedges, hawthorn and blackthorn and buttercups, bindweed and blue field madder in the grass beside them. Young blackbirds and thrushes twittered from the hedges. After a few moments she stopped, moved close to the hedge and looked across to the field beyond. It was a rough pasture and a short distance away she could see the white tails of rabbits as they bucked nervously around a warren, so far oblivious to her presence. Maryann smiled, watching them. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass, but otherwise it was very quiet, not a sound except for the birds. Somewhere over there must be the cut, winding through the fields. She looked down, suddenly aware of herself, standing here alone, with time to think. It seemed very
odd
suddenly that she was here in this life so divorced from her childhood.

How did I get here? she thought. Here am I, nearly twenty – I could be here doing this for the rest of my life. She turned the envelope in her hands and looked at her brother’s name. ‘Master Tony Nelson’. He was supposed to be Tony Griffin, but she would never, never call him that. This was her family now: two boys who she might never see again. She didn’t count her mom. A great feeling of loneliness came over her. Would she never have anyone to call her own? Would her whole life be spent here? She might become a lady’s maid, but then wouldn’t she just be a dried-up, middle-aged woman, living through all the events of the Mussons’ life instead of having any real happiness of her own? The bleakness of this outlook brought tears to her eyes. Until now, Charnwood had offered the haven she needed. It had brought her a sense of calm. But now it suddenly didn’t seem to be nearly enough.

She walked on, wiping her eyes, deep in thought, no longer noticing the beauty around her, and turned on to the main road. For the first time in a very long while, she allowed herself to think about the events that had driven her to this place. Sal’s death, the fire, Joel . . . Joel’s betrayal of her, the disgust she had felt. She relived that journey down to Banbury on the cut, the night he had taken her out to the fields, trying to see his face in her mind. The lust in it, the disgusting, frightening emotions that drove men . . . Joel’s face swam into her mind, lit by the silver light of that winter night.

‘I’ve such feelings for you . . .’ He’d said that. She hadn’t heard, she’d only panicked and fought him off. That face had been full of Joel’s tenderness and shame and bewilderment.

I was only a child, she thought, clinging bitterly to her anger. He shouldn’t’ve done that to me.

But now the memories came to her of the feeling of being held by him, the comfort and power of him, the sense of safety he had always given her. Had she made a mistake? Had she got it all wrong and twisted because she was young and in a terrible state? She stopped, looking up the road. Joel was long gone now, of course – she couldn’t say any of this to him. But she needed to admit it to herself. There was a gateway up ahead and she decided to go and rest on it, to let herself think for a little while, however much it hurt.

On her usual visits to Banbury what Maryann normally liked to do was to spend a couple of hours strolling round the town, along the Horsefair, past the famous Banbury Cross, looking in the windows of shops, perhaps buying a few small things, sometimes more notepaper to write to Tony. She would often treat herself to a cup of tea and a Banbury cake in one of the teashops. Today she bought a stamp and posted Tony’s letter, first kissing the envelope.

‘Hope yer get this, Tony,’ she murmered, slipping it into the posting box. Her hand was shaking as she held it out. ‘I hope yer awright, you and Billy. God bless yer both.’

She began her usual wandering, peering in the window of a china shop at the beautiful Wedgwood cups and saucers, the pretty ornaments, little vases and painted animals. Further along was a dressmaker’s and haberdashery store. Should she buy a length of poplin to make a skirt? But her heart wasn’t in it. She wasn’t very good at sewing, even with all the help and guidance Mrs Letcombe had given her, and today she couldn’t seem to keep her mind on anything. She found herself wandering purposelessly among the Banbury streets, across the Market Place amid the clamour of the busy vendors and shoppers and smells of food.

Before she realized it she found warehouses growing up around her, the scents of bread and fruit fading to be replaced by more grimy smells of coal and dust, wharf buildings growing up around her and the sudden sight and smell of the cut. She had only once been back to the cut before, further along, when she wandered there by mistake a few years earlier. Since then she had kept away deliberately.

The sight of it flooded in on her. A pair of narrowboats were gliding towards her, towed by a stringy mule, his reflection shimmering in the grey, murky water. A great rush of memories flooded into her mind. The cabin of the
Esther Jane
, the beauty of the Oxford Canal when she had seen it in glorious summertime and with the white frost of winter. And the steady, tranquil glide of the boat, with Joel at the tiller, his great strong arm guiding her. In her mind she heard his laugh, the way she had heard it that first time she met him, then later, when she ran to him in the dark by the lock. She found tears welling in her eyes again at the thought of him, at the love she had for him that she had rejected, that she had run from and turned her back on.

‘Oh Joel,’ she whispered. ‘Wherever you are – I shouldn’t have run away from you like that!’

Thirty

She went back to Charnwood House to start work that evening. When she walked into the kitchen Evan was there, leaning nonchalantly against the table talking to Alice.

’’Ello, Maryann,’ Alice said. ‘D’you ’ave a nice afternoon?’

‘Yes, ta,’ Maryann said abruptly, walking past them both. ‘I’ll take the water upstairs,’ she added.

One of her tasks in the evening was to carry up the heavy brass cans of hot water which the family used for their evening wash before dinner, draping them with a towel to keep the heat in before the water was poured into the porcelain basins. Polishing the cans was also one of her daily duties. Once they were down having their dinner, she and Janet, the third housemaid, had to scurry round tidying rooms, picking up dropped clothes, plumping cushions and, in winter, brushing round the grate and refuelling the fire. In the summer the workload was lighter.

She took Pamela Musson’s water to her room and found her lolling on her bed. ‘Oh my – is it that time already?’ she said languorously. Next, Maryann went down and fetched Roland’s water. Once the cans were full they were quite arduous to carry. She felt herself starting to sweat. She hoped Roland wouldn’t be in his room as he always seemed to want to delay her these days. But when she knocked he called, ‘Come!’

‘Your water, sir.’

‘Ah – it’s the lovely Nelson again.’ He’d clearly just come in from the garden and was still dressed in his working clothes. There was a glass of whiskey on the table and she could smell it in the air. ‘Very civil of you, Nelson,’ Roland said. ‘Pour it in – usual place.’ He held out his arm expansively.

Maryann obeyed, thinking, someone’s been pouring something stronger down him by the look of him.

‘I don’t know why – I feel in a damn good mood today,’ Roland said, flinging himself down on the bed.

‘That’ll be a bit of sunshine, sir.’

‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’

She went to the door.

‘Nelson?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I—’ He opened his mouth, then closed it again, brow wrinkling. ‘I was on the verge of saying something tremendously important just then, but I’m damned if I can think what it is. God – d’you think I’m really past it, Nelson? Is this the first sign?’

‘I think it may be the whiskey,’ Maryann suggested.

Roland Musson lay back and roared with laughter. ‘’Course it is! Course it is! Why didn’t I think of that?’

She slid out of the door and downstairs. As she reached the bottom, Evan came out of the kitchen on his way to the dining room.

‘Aha!’ he hissed. ‘’Ere she is then. ’Ello, beautiful!’ He came up close to her so that she had to press herself against the wall with Evan’s face close to hers. She was immediately filled with panic. Every encounter like this brought back Norman Griffin, him forcing her against her will. Head back against the wall, trying to get as far away from Evan as possible, she managed to look into his eyes, praying her own would not betray her fear. He was smirking at her. This was just a game to him. He breathed into her face.

‘I’m still waiting for that kiss.’

It went on and on. She avoided Evan at all possible times, but it got so that everywhere she went she seemed to see his round, leering face, even if he was nowhere near. She even dreamed about him, thinking he had come into her room at night and she woke sweating with fear. All her old ghosts came out to haunt her. The horror of being pursued, trapped by a man for his own dirty purposes, rose in her until she was beginning to live on her nerves and couldn’t sleep at night.