Another Chance, Another Life Read online

  Becky’s head reeled. ‘But how?’ she said. ‘And where am I going to live?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I say that? The Ella Mae, what else.’

  The Ella Mae was his ancient narrowboat, converted from an even more ancient working barge. She had been the apple of Noel’s eye. The magic carpet which had transported him and Ella all over Britain’s canal network.

  ‘But I don’t know how to sail her!’

  ‘I have someone in mind, to show you the ropes. Give you a crash course – not too literally, I hope – to make sure you can handle her anywhere. People set out in hired boats, after a ten-minute tutorial. So why not you, after a proper canal man has made sure you’re safe.’

  ‘But where do I put Jon in school?’

  ‘Find a long-stay stretch on the canal – I know two or three places which are ideal. Then live in the Ella Mae, while you search for work and get Jon into a school. Take whatever you can get, for both of you. Anything. It’s only a short-term solution. Meanwhile, keep applying for proper teaching jobs, anywhere from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. Simple.’

  Becky found herself swept along by his calm reasoning.

  ‘Would it work?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Why not? People live full-time in canal boats. Snug as the proverbial bug, with the stove lit and the curtains drawn in winter – although, God willing, you will have found a new teaching job and settled into your new home, by then.’

  A sudden surge of optimism coursed through Becky.

  ‘It would let me keep the flat,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And give me time to find another job – a proper one.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Noel,’ she said. ‘You are a genius.’

  ‘Just a daft old man, with a head of teak. . . .’ and he patted the white bandages round his brow.

  ‘Not to mention a quart-bottle of whisky, hidden away.’

  ‘So, nobody’s perfect. Rules are made to be broken.’

  ‘It might work,’ Becky said slowly. ‘I could make it work.’

  ‘Never doubted you, not for a second.’

  ‘Noel,’ she said. ‘Can I hug you?’

  ‘Only if I can hug you back.’

  Becky stretched across to the man who had always been such a strong and central figure in her life. Coming back from the dead, almost, to help her out again. Then a crazy but important idea flicked into her mind.

  ‘On one condition,’ she said. Too scared to think it through.

  ‘Which is?’ The faded blue eyes were steady.

  ‘Come with us. Don’t go back to your house, to rot. Show us what to do.’

  ‘Me? I’d only get into your way.’

  ‘Not you,’ she said. ‘There’s cabin space for three, isn’t there?’

  ‘If I change my work den back into a cabin, for Jon.’

  Becky took her courage in both hands. ‘Please come,’ she said. ‘Because what would happen, if I left you here? They’d never let you go home. Then you really would drift off into that other world and they’d send you off long term into a nursing home. And your own house would be eaten up in a couple of years by their charges for a private room.’

  ‘Was that what the dragon was telling you?’

  ‘She’s not a dragon.’

  ‘She does a good imitation of one.’

  ‘Deal or no deal?’ Becky demanded.

  Noel turned his face away, looking round his convalescent room, as if seeing it for the first time. She watched him slowly shake his head. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ he asked her quietly. ‘Absolutely, utterly sure that you want to saddle yourself with a daft old uncle who is nearly 200 years old. . . .’

  ‘. . . and smuggles whisky into convalescent homes. Yes, I’m sure.’

  The steady eyes held hers for what seemed an eternity. While she had a moment of panic, wondering what she was letting herself in for. She saw him read her panic and wait quietly, patiently, for her to change her mind.

  She would die first.

  ‘I’m absolutely, utterly sure,’ she repeated.

  He held out his hand. ‘Deal,’ he said. He smiled with wry humour. ‘This is a massive gamble for both of us, my lassie.’

  ‘It beats waiting here, to take what life will throw at us,’ she said.

  He nodded again. ‘I never was one for waiting,’ he replied. ‘And there’s a place in my mind up north, in God’s own country, that would give us all a fresh start. Let me take you there. . . .’

  Mike Preston rearranged his six-foot body across the floor of the steering well, struggling to find an extra half-inch for the arm which reached deep into the dark cubbyhole where the ancient diesel engine sulked. Waiting for some TLC. The electric engines in modern narrowboats were far less trouble, but Mike had a lifelong love of these old contrary originals.

  He closed his eyes, working on finger-feel alone. There: his fingers closed on the fuel feed. Frowning, he tried to work it free. Oily fingers skidded on the oily pipe. Mike twisted his body a little more to force his shoulder still further under the floorboards, and tried again.

  The phone rang in his office, relayed out to the boatyard. He paused: would the caller go away? No. Each time the answerphone cut in, the ringing stopped – only to start up again, when the number was redialled. Someone was determined to reach him, in person.

  Mike sighed. Like many big men, he was a gentle giant. Mostly. So long as nobody pushed him too hard. He uncoiled from the floor, reaching for an oily rag on which to wipe his hands.

  In the early-morning sunlight, heavy dew sparkled on the tufts of grass along the canal towpath. He walked, with barely any trace of his limp, across the yard and into his office, picking up the phone and glancing at the identification panel.

  ‘Mr Medwin,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I was upside down in a boat. What can I do for you?’ He listened, frowning. ‘Not a problem. The Ella Mae is moored down at the end of the yard. I tied a tarpaulin over her in October, just like you asked. A couple of hours’ work would take that off and drain her bilges. . . .’

  His knee hurt. Mike sat on the corner of the scarred desk, which had served three generations of owners. ‘Sorry. Say again.’

  The instructions were repeated. ‘Yes . . . I can fuel her up with diesel, and take on fresh water. And check that the engine is working, likewise sterilize all the water systems. You’d be better getting a full service, leaving her ready to run. What? Convert the desk back into the original bunk? Should be easy. Want me to provision her, or. . . .’

  He massaged the knee, a gesture repeated fifty, maybe even a hundred times a day. Mike never counted, because he was generally unaware that he was doing it. A reflex action – closing the barn door after the horse had bolted.

  He straightened. ‘Take her down to Ormskirk for you? Possibly, Mr Medwin, but let me check the office diary. . . .’ Blackened fingers flicked over the oily corners of the pages. There were a couple of scribbled entries, but nothing he couldn’t call up and postpone. It was too early in the season to be busy.

  ‘Yes,’ he finally replied. ‘I can shuffle things around. If I work on the Ella Mae this afternoon, and get in some provisions, I can sail her down to Wigan by Thursday night. Then a day to go down the Flight – the lock-keepers will be on hand to help me, I won’t have to do it all on my own. They’re a decent bunch of lads. I can have her waiting for you at Ormskirk by Saturday morning. If I pull out all the stops, that’s the quickest I can reach you.’

  Frowning, he listened again. Whatever was being said at the other end, it clearly wasn’t what Mike wanted to hear. Twice he tried to interrupt; each time, the voice at the other end of the phone talked over him.

  Mike shook his head. ‘Sorry, no way! I can’t spare you a whole week of my time, Mr Medwin,’ he finally said. ‘If it was a hire boat, the yard would give your crew fifteen minutes’ instruction, at best. Tell you what, I’ll take your crew up through the Wigan Flight on Saturday – show them the
ropes. By then, they’ll know how to steer, moor, handle swing bridges, and locks. But, come Saturday night, I’m heading home. Leaving Sunday to catch up on what’s happened here, in the yard.’

  He listened, nodding, to the reply. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you at 8 a.m. sharp.’ He hesitated. ‘How have you been keeping?’ he asked, thinking that the old guy had looked pretty dodgy in the autumn. The pithy reply left him snorting with laughter. ‘Great! Right, see you soon,’ he said.

  Absently, Mike put down the phone. Noel Medwin was a customer who went back through his dad’s generation, maybe even back to his granddad. He and his dead wife, Ella, had always used the yard to service their boat between trips which wandered all over Britain. Then the wife had died, and the old boat had been claimed by cobwebs. Shame.

  He was glad to hear that Noel and his boat were taking to the water again – but what did he mean by ‘tunnelling out to escape’? Escape what? And who exactly were this crew he had to train? Was the old guy kosher, his marbles still lined up neatly, or was he going to sail down through Wigan to find the police and the social services waiting for him on the bank?

  The man he remembered wouldn’t go gaga in six months. Would he?

  Mike grinned. For sure, things always happened when Noel Medwin was around – nothing had changed. The trip would be a busman’s holiday, taking the Ella Mae down through Wigan’s locks. That should work up a fair sweat. . . .

  A fair sweat, like in the old days. Sometimes he missed them, the limelight, the constant demands for interviews. Mostly he didn’t, because he was back to doing the thing he loved – which was to work on boats.

  He walked back across the yard, whistling. A sudden gust of spring breeze whisked a plastic bag towards him. Instinctively, his foot snapped out and brought it down. Before he could stop himself, he had switched feet and was kicking it.

  He yelped. Bent down to massage that stupid knee again, then straightened, smiling wryly. These days were gone. As in forever.

  Kathy sighed: she was a lot less confident than she had sounded. The pep talk had been aimed as much at herself as Becky. Uneasily, she flipped through the Situations Vacant pages. There simply were no jobs in teaching locally – not even within long-haul commuting distance.

  She drummed her fingers uneasily on the table. Step 1 had been to check and see what was on offer. Very little, it seemed. Step 2, she hadn’t yet decided – but it would have to include some kind of physical involvement, because she wasn’t engineered to sit down and wait.

  She rose and moved with catlike fluidity over to the window, looking unseeingly down the street outside. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain. Step 2, she decided, would be to update her CV, promoting herself as a blend of Wonderwoman and the Brain of Britain. That’s what you had to do these days, market yourself as a brand, rather than simply tell the truth. Next she would print out about a dozen copies, with a covering letter saying: ‘This is me, have you a job anywhere that needs to be done?’ Then she would hand-deliver the letters, to every school in the district. Marketing herself.

  She grinned. No bike, but Norman Tebbitt would be proud of her.

  One thought led to another. Making a start on Step 2 would fill this afternoon but, right now, she needed to be out and running, feeling the blustery wind from the Ribble Estuary on her face. She could cut down to the promenade. At this time of the year, it would be shorn of its tourists. So she could plug in her iPod and run along the coast until her legs told her that it was time to turn and head for home.

  That would get rid of doubts and frustrations, and maybe spark inspiration for her CV flights of fancy. It beat worrying.

  Within five minutes, she was standing on her doorstep, a slender figure in tracksuit and well-scuffed trainers. She reached up, adjusting the iPod earpieces, then switched on. Already in her own world, she ran lithely down the street, heading for the seafront with the light-footed stride of a natural runner.

  Behind her, the blustery wind sent dead leaves whirling and dancing in brown spirals, across the empty pavements.

  Becky stared through her flat’s front windows. It was too early in the year to become a nomad, but she was now committed to that course. Restlessly she turned, tidying cushions which she’d straightened only minutes before.

  So far, it had been much easier than expected. The head teacher hadn’t created a fuss – indeed had admitted that taking Jon away from her school might be the best way of solving the bullying problem. She had warned Becky that the education authorities would soon intervene, if Jon wasn’t quickly placed in a new school, but had been happy to organize a list of work to be covered, so that Becky could teach him herself, until that new school was found.

  The estate agents had been reassuring. She had a good choice – to rent, or sell. It was a nice flat, in a good location, and retiring couples were always looking for suburban ground-floor flats in Southport. Oddly enough, they had backed up Noel: why sell when the housing market was barely starting to recover? Better simply to rent, and pick your tenants carefully. Which they would do.

  The front door opened. It was Jonathon, back from school. He pushed through into the lounge, hair ruffled by the wind, cheeks glowing.

  ‘Well,’ Becky said. ‘Had a good day at school?’

  ‘Sort of. Managed to stay invisible. Wasn’t made the teacher’s pet.’

  Her son was bright, with the kind of instant understanding which hard-pressed teachers were too quick to applaud, making him more of a target than he already was. But ‘invisible’ was probably a code word for no bullying. After her last complaint, that had subsided – the boys in question aware that they were being watched, and waiting for this new interest in them to die away.

  She could tell him now, when all the i’s were dotted. ‘How would you feel about leaving that school forever?’

  He looked at her puzzled, instantly aware that this was not a game.

  She had planned to keep this low key, but it all came out in a rush. ‘How would you like to live in a canal boat, while we look for a new job for me and a new home for us to stay in?’

  Becky staggered as he hurled himself into her arms. ‘I take it, that means a yes,’ she said, her eyes filling. She felt him nod.

  ‘When do we leave?’ he asked, his face pressed deep into her.

  ‘Is this weekend soon enough?’

  He looked up at her, eyes shining. ‘What’s the boat like?’ he asked. ‘Is it painted and things? Does it have potted flowers on it. . . ?’

  Becky laughed. ‘I’ve never been aboard her, since I was about your age. . . .’

  But without waiting for her answer, he was dancing round the room. ‘We’re getting away from school!’ he chanted.

  ‘No you’re not,’ she said sternly. ‘I’ll be teaching you, until. . . .’

  Jonathon raced out of the room. ‘I’m off to pack!’ he called over his shoulder.

  Becky smiled wryly. That meant she’d probably have to unpack, then make sure that he was taking all the boring things – like clothes and schoolbooks. But some of his excitement lingered in the room. She felt herself respond.

  A new beginning. Forced on her by circumstances, but giving her a chance to find a new life for both of them. With fresh scope for growth. For a few moments, the challenge left her exhilarated. Then her doubts returned, like crows to their rookery in the dusk.

  So early in the year, to live like gypsies. Would the narrowboat be cold, and damp? Where was she going to find another job? She absolutely must. She was responsible, not just for herself but for her son. Worse, she was taking responsibility for an old man who was struggling to cope with life. Could she bring back to life the Noel Medwin she knew – or was she only causing further problems, maybe hastening his decline? Was she mad?

  From across the hall, she heard her small son singing. A noise which seemed strange, because she hadn’t heard him sing for years. There had been no reason for him to sing.
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  Until now.

  Becky’s shoulders straightened. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, let him down.

  Chapter 2

  The taxi drew up with a squeal of brakes that echoed across the early-morning stillness of the canal basin. Closed and boarded grey buildings huddled together, above a cluster of moored narrowboats.

  ‘That’s us,’ said Noel. ‘There’s the Ella Mae – down at the canal side.’

  ‘It’s got smoke, coming out of its chimney,’ Jonathon said excitedly.

  ‘Why not? There’s an iron stove inside,’ Noel replied. ‘Mike will have the kettle on, waiting for us.’ He tugged the thick woollen jacket more tightly round himself, shivering.

  ‘Leave your case here,’ Becky urged. ‘I’ll come back for it.’

  ‘The crew pulls its weight – or it’s not a crew at all,’ Noel said firmly. He lifted his small case. ‘You too, Jon. A sailor carries his own kitbag . . . but don’t try to sling that case over your shoulder. Good lad. That leaves your mum with two to carry. She comes cheaper than native porters. . . .’

  Becky smiled. She should have been worried, scared; instead she was full of excitement and fresh optimism – Noel’s quiet and careful work. She sniffed the sharp air. The morning had the feel of a new start in life, she thought. High trees, standing silent and shrouded in mist; heavy dew glistening on the fields beyond the marina and on the tarpaulins of the moored boats. Only the distant sound of traffic, already muted as if it belonged to another world. No movement anywhere, not even a single rook across the sky.

  As if the world was waiting for them to write a new beginning.

  The cabin door opened on the Ella Mae. She watched a tall figure climb up the steps from the cabin and close the door behind him to keep in the warmth. It was a morning for rubbing your hands together – only hers were full of suitcases, and even the minimal packing that Noel had insisted on was heavy.