Another Chance, Another Life Read online

  She saw the man hesitate, then step from the steering well onto the bank and walk easily towards them. Broad-shouldered, untidy dark hair which needed cut, quiet grey eyes in a face burned dark from exposure to the wind.

  ‘You’re right on schedule, Mr Medwin,’ he said.

  ‘It was Noel to your dad, and your granddad before him,’ Noel said mildly.

  They shook hands. The suitcase was gathered easily into a large paw, then the canal man reached for one of Becky’s cases. She found herself looking up into calm and steady eyes. ‘I’m Mike,’ he said easily. ‘Mike Preston.’

  ‘Rebecca,’ she replied. ‘Most people call me Becky.’

  ‘I’ve got the kettle boiling,’ said Mike. ‘Why don’t we all go down and have a mug of tea while you’re stowing your luggage.’ Silently, he thought: Well done, Noel, they haven’t come laden down with clothes that can’t be stored. A good start to their new life. One that showed this Becky to be willing to listen and learn. She’d have to do a lot of that, to cope with living full-time on a canal boat. Would she be too posh and sheltered to adjust?

  He liked his first impressions. Not a head-turner, just slim and competent and nice. Too many lines of worry around her eyes and mouth. Noel would sort these out – as would the sheer joy of living in the open air and travelling.

  ‘Watch your feet on the gunwale, as you step aboard,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first . . . pass over your cases. Steady yourself as you step aboard – one hand for yourself and the other for the ship, that’s what old sailors used to say. It still applies, even to canal boats.’

  The cabin was just as Becky remembered. Warm and snug, neat blue curtains drawn back to show crisp white lace curtains underneath. Beneath these, two sets of comfortable cushioned bench seats on either side of the table, with a blackened iron stove taking up a corner on the other side. Between the cabin door and this, storage cupboards, with a row of hooks for mugs or brass and iron cooking utensils. The neat kitchen was tucked onto the same side as the table. With four of them standing there, it was full but not crowded.

  ‘Main cabin’s up in the bows,’ said Mike. ‘I take it that’s yours, Noel?’ But it was to Becky that he looked; she nodded. ‘Fine. The small cabin lies port side – that’s to the left as you look – of the passageway. I rebuilt the bed, Noel, under the window where your desk was. . . .’

  He neatly sidestepped, and grinned, as Jonathon hurtled past.

  It was a nice grin, Becky thought. The man was taking real pleasure in her small son’s excitement and need to explore his new home.

  ‘Your cabin, Becky, is this lounge space, once it converts at night. The tabletop drops down between the seat boxes, to make up a bed base. Rearrange the cushions, to make your mattress. Your bedding is stowed under the seats – see, here’s the cupboard door.’ He lifted the crisp tablecloth aside.

  ‘Mum! Come and see!’ Jonnie was beside himself with excitement.

  Mike waved her past. ‘It’s better once everybody’s sitting down. More space. They don’t call them narrowboats for nothing. They were designed so that two of them can sit side by side in any of the canal locks. Saves water – and that’s the most important thing in any canal. No water, no passage. . . .’

  Becky eased through. Then her hand was grabbed and she was hauled into the small second bedroom in the boat. A single bunk, neatly made with a fresh-looking duvet cover. Clean curtains. But what her son was pointing at was a poster hanging from the wall – two posters, she realized, as she turned to look. Instantly transforming the working den she remembered into a boy’s room.

  On one wall hung a huge blue and white team photograph of Wigan FC, the signatures of all the players scrawled across their images. And on the facing wall, an action poster in red of one of the best-known faces in British football.

  ‘I coach kids,’ Mike said quietly. ‘I got the Wigan boys to sign the poster for another lad – but he dropped out of the coaching sessions and it’s been cluttering up my office. The Stevie Gerrard poster I’ve had for years, waiting for the right lad to turn up. Its wait is over.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her throat constricting.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Mike said. ‘I’m off to make the tea. . . .’

  He headed into the cabin, to find Noel sitting at the table, looking around him, a sad and nostalgic smile on his face. Too many shadows present.

  ‘You’ve had everything washed and cleaned,’ Noel commented.

  ‘It was damp and dingy from over-wintering. There’s a laundry and ironing service in the village. I got them to run everything through. First impressions count – especially to a woman.’ Mike nodded silently back to where Becky was still in her son’s bedroom. They could hear the boy’s excited voice.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Noel. ‘It was vital that we started off on the right foot, keeping her thinking positively – and you’ve done that. I can’t thank you enough. . . .’

  ‘Who takes milk, and who takes sugar?’ Mike asked, turning away.

  Kathy ran along the sandy promenade, heading back from Martin Mere and into the wind from the sea. She had her earpiece in and was singing along to the track which was playing.

  Her letters had been delivered. Now she could only wait – and run. She had a feeling that the treads on her trainers would grow smooth before she had a reply, but that first step must always be taken before you start on any long march – ask Chairman Mao.

  She loved feeling fit, the wind blowing through her hair. On days like this, she felt as if she could run a marathon, without stopping for a break.

  Ahead of her, she spotted another runner. A man.

  Gradually, she overtook him. ‘Hiya,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ he answered.

  For a few paces, they ran together.

  ‘Great wind for running,’ he said. ‘Keeps you nice and cool.’

  She glanced across. Mid-thirties, she guessed, but some speckles of grey in the hair at his temples. Weather-beaten brown – another regular runner. Kathy slowed to his pace. It was always good to have company for a bit, with someone who was like-minded.

  ‘Been out to the Mere,’ she said. ‘Yourself?’

  ‘No. Cut in across the fields back there. I’ve work waiting for me, couldn’t manage the full route today.’

  She nearly told him that she was out of work. Boring – unless you were unemployed yourself. ‘I usually run at night,’ she said.

  ‘I’m busy then.’

  She waited for a few strides, but he didn’t elaborate. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll be doing some morning running – maybe see you again. . . .’

  There was an imp in Kathy. Road runners often share a distance, side by side; then one of them accelerates away. Kathy took a perverse pleasure in running with men, then leaving them floundering in her wake. She lengthened her stride.

  He casually matched her increase in speed.

  She grinned, then quietly poured on more pace.

  He matched her again and, from the corner of her eye, she could see that he was smiling slightly. OK, so he was fit. This was a real challenge, but she would burn him off.

  She didn’t. They became two athletes, no longer talking, just settling to the task of pushing the other to breaking point. Only neither broke.

  As they came into the town’s front, she panted: ‘I cut up here.’

  ‘I’m a bit further on . . . take care.’

  To her annoyance, his breathing seemed easier than her own.

  She paused. ‘You can run,’ she said wryly. ‘I usually leave them floundering with sustained pace like that.’

  ‘Once I could run,’ he said. ‘Now, I play at it.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye. . .’ He watched her fleet-footed figure turn up into the town, then set off again himself. At a slower pace. Now she was gone, he started panting too . . . no further need for mind games. He grinned. With luck, their training runs would converge again. Triggering another battle of their wills.

 
He looked forward to that. He liked her style.

  Mike’s eye caught Becky’s. ‘Look,’ he said apologetically. ‘If we’re going to go up the Wigan Flight today, we need to get underway. The locks close by dusk.’

  Becky glanced at the table, now a comfortable clutter of mugs and plates.

  ‘I’ll wash up,’ said Noel. ‘Jon can dry. You’ll need your feet clear upstairs anyway, not being crowded by spectators.’

  Becky’s shoulders squared: this was the real start to her new life.

  ‘Right,’ she said, her heart skipping a beat.

  ‘Relax,’ Mike said easily. ‘Everything moves slowly on a canal, so you can take your time. The more you hurry, the more likely you are to get it wrong.’ He led the way up the steps through the folding cabin doors, out into the cold.

  ‘What do I do first?’ Becky asked determinedly.

  ‘Start the engine. See this lever down here – that’s the throttle. You can reach down and move it with your hand. But it’s set at a height where you can nudge it forward or back, by your knee, leaving your hands free. Nudge it to neutral, before you start up.’ He pushed the lever to its original position. ‘Now you do it,’ he instructed. ‘Move it back until you feel it clunk.’

  Becky swallowed, but the cold metal lever slipped easily back into neutral.

  ‘What’s next?’ she asked.

  ‘Press that button. Like this. . . .’

  His large hand gently took, then pushed firmly through, her index finger to the starter. The engine coughed, then growled beneath her feet. He took her hand away, then let go.

  Her skin tingled, where his fingers had gently held her.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Now the dodgy bit. I’ll take the tiller, you step onto the bank and release the ropes. Coil the bow rope on the cabin top – you’ll need it later. Then release the stern rope. Gently put your foot against the boat and ease her bows out. Not too far, because you have to step back on board. No jumping – that’s when accidents happen.’

  Becky stepped onto the canal bank, walked forward to the front rope. She hesitated, then saw that it had been left simply to pull the end of the rope, and the knot would be released. Easy work, the rope damp and cold in her hands. She half-coiled it, and leaned forward to drop it onto the cabin roof.

  The engine’s beat rose a little, as she walked back to the stern and released the second knot.

  ‘Just a gentle push . . . that’s it, with the sole of your foot.’

  Becky leaned, unsure, against the boat’s gunwale. Felt it move slightly.

  ‘Enough. Now, step back on board.’ The same calm instruction.

  And she was back in the steering well, safe and sound.

  ‘See,’ Mike said. ‘Our bows are easing out from the bank . . . all we have to do is nudge the lever forward, get the engine working . . . that’s us underway.’

  The Ella Mae settled to a steady putt-putt-putt, and the bank began to slide slowly past. ‘Keep to the right,’ said Mike. ‘Water has different rules from roads. Let me settle her down, then you can take the tiller.’

  ‘Me? I don’t know how to steer!’

  ‘So, you have ten hours, to learn. I’ll help at first . . . that’s it, stand here beside the throttle lever.’

  Her heart racing, Becky took over the high brass tiller. It was icy cold to the touch. Then she felt a warm hand slip over her own.

  ‘If you want to steer to the right,’ said Mike, ‘ease the tiller the opposite direction . . . but not too much. Like this. And if you want to go to the left, swing it to the right. Always in the opposite direction. We’ve got the canal to ourselves, let’s go out into the middle and you take over.’

  Becky gulped, clinging onto the tiller like grim death.

  ‘Don’t dent it!’ he grinned. ‘Ease off. Just watch the prow – that’s the pointy bit at the front. Let me see you steer a little right . . . no, be patient, you have forty tonnes of boat moving, she takes time to answer, and if you steer too far then you’ve got to correct. A little at a time, unless in emergencies. No hurry, everything’s slow motion at 3 mph. That’s it.’

  ‘These ducks!’ panicked Becky. ‘I’m going to hit them!’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he smiled. ‘They can swim twice as fast as you. Hold your course. They’ll get out of your way.’

  Which they did, with room to spare.

  With the canal to themselves, the sun still rising over the trees, Becky was starting to enjoy the feel of the old canal boat moving through the water. The bows drifted a little to the right – and she found herself instinctively steering against it. She watched them straighten, then drift to the left. Her correction this time was exact – and instinctive.

  ‘You’re a fast learner,’ Mike complimented. ‘Not many women are.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ Becky exclaimed.

  He waved a placating hand. ‘Technical stuff. Men usually pick it up quicker – it’s like reading maps.’

  ‘I can read a map,’ she snapped.

  He grinned. ‘OK, I take your word for it, Cap’n.’

  She blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘Captain. There is one ruler on any boat, and that’s the captain. On board, he – or she – is God. Their word undisputed. Theoretically, you can keelhaul your crew for indiscipline. But I doubt there’s enough water to do that right now. . . .’

  That was better, he thought: he had her laughing. He pointed ahead. ‘Here’s our first obstacle. A swing bridge.’

  Becky peered over the cabin roof. ‘Do we squeeze under it?’

  ‘No room. We have to stop, and open it.’

  ‘How do we stop?’ She glanced down.

  Mike laughed outright. ‘There’s no brake pedal. Lower the revs and she’ll slow down. Go on. That’s it, nudge the lever back a little . . . a bit more. Let her slow down, and coast in towards the bank. Good. Now nudge the lever back, beyond neutral. That’s reverse, and the propeller’s stopping our forward movement. Back into neutral. Give me the tiller. Take the stern rope and when she touches, step ashore – no jumping.’

  Becky found herself on dry land, threading the rope through a rusting metal hoop on the bank.

  ‘A couple of turns,’ she heard. ‘Then finish it the way you got it before, if you can remember how.’

  She straightened, to find him smiling beside her, a steel L-shaped crank in his hand. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you how to turn a bridge round on its axis. . . .’

  As they waited for road traffic to ease, he grinned. ‘Get used to being hated, by every motorist you hold up. Right, press this button, that activates the signals and stops the traffic. Fit the handle on like this . . . and turn like mad. It’s low-gearing, not heavy. Here, you do it.’

  She found herself turning the handle, hair falling over her face.

  ‘Good old Noel,’ she heard him say. ‘He’s got the tiller. He’s going to take her through himself. Your boy’s unloosing the rope.’

  ‘If he falls in. . . .’

  ‘He won’t. This is Boy’s Own adventure stuff. Look at him, it’s like Noel has given him a birthday present!’

  Becky blinked back tears. This wasn’t her frightened son, any more. Just an ordinary boy, taking orders from a man – and enjoying it. She watched him step nimbly on board, and hold onto the cabin roof as Noel brought their new home putt-putting through beneath them.

  ‘Now close the bridge,’ Mike said. ‘You do it. You need to know.’

  Becky spun the handle, marvelling at how a whole section of road could pivot so easily on ancient engineering. She felt it clunk gently and the mechanism lock.

  ‘Press the button,’ Mike said. ‘Set the lights to green. Always give the motorists a friendly wave – like this. Make them feel bad for all the nasty things they’ve been muttering.’

  But the motorists were smiling and waving too, as they sped past.

  Mike had that effect on people, she thought wryly.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Only
eight more bridges, before we reach the Wigan locks – you’ll be a world expert, by then. Between the three of you, all the jobs have been decided. You to open and close the bridge. Noel to steer her through and moor her for you. And your lad to act as cabin boy, hopping off and on. Well done, Cap’n. You run a tight ship.’

  There was a twinkle in his eye, which became a grin. Becky felt herself smiling too. ‘I could murder another mug of tea,’ she panted.

  ‘You’re the captain. Order your crew to make one.’

  ‘What are these big tin cans on our cabin roof?’ asked Jonathon.

  ‘Water cans,’ replied Noel. ‘In the old days, boats didn’t have water tanks below. The entire canal family lived and slept in the one cabin, which was where we have the table and the kitchen. Beyond that, the rest of the boat was an empty hull, with tarpaulins draped over it. They carried whatever they could get, for a few shillings to someplace else, up and down the canal. So they kept their fresh water in these big old cans, up top. Old working boats like the Ella Mae still keep them on the roof – it’s a tradition.’

  ‘Why are they painted?’

  Noel increased the revs slightly and steered carefully through beneath the swing bridge. ‘Another tradition,’ he said. ‘Canal families used to be Romanies – gypsies from Europe. They loved bright colours. And that’s why so many canal boats have castles painted on them, the folk-memories the Romanies brought with them. Some boats have flowers painted. The canal system runs through the Potteries, where the fashion was to paint roses on the china. The Romanies copied these flower patterns from their china cargoes onto their boats. It gave them something cheerful to look at in the winter, when the land beside the canal was dead.’ He eased off the revs and glided gently to the bank. ‘Step, don’t jump – and don’t forget the rope, like last time.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Jonathon. Thinking that this sailor’s term should really be ‘No, no,’ in the circumstances.

  ‘Would you listen to them?’ Becky panted, working to close her fifth swing bridge behind them. ‘Noel’s adopting him – just like he once adopted me. . . .’

  Kathy wasn’t one for hanging about. Within minutes of getting the idea at the supermarket tills, she was speaking to a supervisor. Within minutes of that, she was being ushered into the manager’s office, still carrying her shopping.